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THE 


Children's  Book  of  Poetry. 


f      5*      J2       S-      ■* 


Dear  ladies,'  she  cries,  and  the  tears  trickle  down, 
'  Relieve  a  poor  beggar,   I   pray.'  " 


See  page  11&. 


THE 


CHILDREN'S 


BOOK  OF  POETRY: 


CAREFULLY  SELECTED  FROM  THE  WORKS  OF  THE  BEST  AND  MOST 
POPULAR  WRITERS  FOR  CHILDREN. 

BY 

HEN  RY   T.    COATES, 

EDITOR   OF   THE   "  FIRESIDE    ENCYCLOPAEDIA   OF   POETRY." 


ILLUSTRATED    WITH    NEARLY    200    ENGRAVINGS. 

FROM    DESIGNS    BY 

GUSTAVE  DORE,  HARRISON  WEIR,  J.  E.  MILLAIS.  GEORGE  H.  THOMAS,  GIACOMELLI, 
AND   OTHER   DISTINGUISHED   ARTISTS. 


PORTER    &    COATES, 

PHILADELPHIA. 


COPYRIGHT, 

Henry   T.  Coates, 

1879. 


Westcott  &  Thomson,  Henry  B.  Ashmead, 

Stereotyptrs  and  Electratypers,  Philada.  Printer,  Philada. 


PREFACE. 


To  collect  within  the  limits  of  a  single  volume  the  poems  best  calcu- 
lated to  interest  and  instruct  children  between  the  ages  of  six  and  four- 
teen has  been  the  aim  of  the  compiler  of  this  work. 

There  are,  it  is  true,  many  and  admirable  collections  now  before  the 
public,  but  none  of  them  seems  so  comprehensive  and  varied  in  cha- 
racter as  to  satisfy  the  wants  of  an  intelligent  child.  In  some  of  them 
the  editors  have  apparently  labored  under  the  impression  that  poems  writ- 
ten about  children  are  written  especially  for  children,  and  consequently 
have  admitted  much  that  is  beyond  the  mental  capacity  of  a  child  ;  while 
in  others  the  effort  to  attain  simplicity  has  often  resulted  in  producing  a 
mass  of  trivial  and  insipid  pieces.  Again,  some  have  rejected  old  and 
well-established  favorites  because  their  literary  merits  are  not  up  to  the 
present  high  standard;  but  the  fact  that  they  are  favorites  proves  that 
they  possess  some  power  or  merit  that  makes  them  worthy  to  be  included 
in  a  comprehensive  collection. 

The  main  objection,  however,  to  most  collections  of  poetry  for  children, 
is  the  paucity  of  narrative  poems  they  contain.  Story -telling  is,  and  ever 
must  be,  one  of  the  greatest  pleasures  of  childhood,  and  the  most  effect- 
ive means  of  inculcating  great  truths  and  conveying  instruction  to  the 
youthful  mind ;  and  for  this  reason  many  poems  of  a  narrative  character 
have  been  admitted,  which,  if  judged  solely  on  their  literary  merits,  would 
not  have  found  a  place  in  these  pages. 

For  greater  convenience,  the  poems  have  been  arranged  under  appropri- 
ate subject-headings,  such  as  "  Baby-Days,"  "  Play-Days,"  "  Lessons  of  Life," 
"  Animals  and  Birds,"  "  Trees  and  Flowers,"  "  Nature,"  "  Religion,"  "  Christ- 
mas and  New  Year,"  "  Old  Tales  and  Ballads,"  and  "  Some  Famous  Poems 
for  the  Older  Children."     In  "  Old  Tales  and  Ballads  "  it  has  been  thought 


5011G3 


PREFACE. 


advisable  to  include  a  few  of  the  famous  old  English  ballads,  such  as 
"  Chevy  Chase "  and  "  The  Heir  of  Linne,"  which  are  written  in  such  a 
simple  style  that  they  can  be  easily  understood  by  the  older  children,  and 
their  narrative  character  makes  them  attractive  and  interesting  to  all.  In 
these  the  modern  spelling  has  been  used.  In  "  Some  Famous  Poems  for 
the  Older  Children  "  have  been  included  a  few  of  those  poems  that,  either 
by  their  vivid  description  or  by  the  power  they  possess  of  appealing  to 
the  hearts  of  the  young  as  well  as  the  old,  will  be  found  in  nearly  all 
collections  of  poetry,  and  which,  while  they  may  for  the  time  be  beyond 
the  comprehension  of  some  children,  will  some  day  be  prized  by  them 
as  they  are  by  their  eldeflfT 

The  Editor  trusts  that  in  offering  this  book  to  children  he  not  only 
adds  to  their  present  enjoyment,  but  gives  them  a  treasure  they  will  ever 
prize — a  delight  and  a  constant  companion  in  childhood,  a  pleasant  re- 
membrance in  after-years. 

Philadelphia,  September  29,  1879. 


Index  of  the  Names  of  the  Poems, 


ALPHABETICALLY    ARRANGED. 


Page 

Abou  Ben*  Adhem...... Leigh  Hunt.  517 

About  the  Fairies "Rhyme  and  Reason."  452 

Adelgitha Thomas  Campbell.  487 

Adventures  of  Robinson  Crusoe 458 

Alexander   Selkirk,  Verses    supposed   to    be 

written  by William  Cowper.  464 

All  have  Work  to  do R.  P.  S.  117 

All  Things  Beautiful John  Keble.  279 

America Samuel  F.  Smith.  50S 

American  Flag Joseph  Rodman  Drake.  507 

Among  the  Animals Mary  Mapes  Dodge.  47 

Annie 39 

Annie  and  Willie's  Prayer. ...Sojjhia  P.  Snow.  404 

Another  Little  Wa,ve. Lucy  Evelina  Akerman.  15 

Another  Plum  Cake Jane  Taylor.  132 

Answer  to  a  Child's   Question, 

S.   T.   Coleridge.  234 

Apple  Tree,  The Jane  Taylor.  121 

April's  Trick R.  P.  Utter.  308 

Arab's  Farewell  to  his  Horse,  The, 

C.  Norton.  ISO 

Ariel's  Songs William  Shakesjjeare.  430 

Autumn Mrs.  Hawtrcy.  325 

Babes  in  the  Wood,  The 456 

Babie,  The /.  E.  Rankin.     30 

Baby Jane  Taylor.     16 

Baby,  The Elizabeth  W.  Townsend.     17 

Baby  Birds 232 

Baby-Land George  Cooper.     27 

Baby  May William  Cox  Bennett.     19 

Baby  Paul., Mrs.  Bishop  Tho?npson.     31 

Baby's  Complaint L.  J.  H.     23 

Ballad  of  Chevy-Chase 479 

1 


Page 

Battle  of  Blenheim,  The Robert  Southey.  500 

Beautiful  Grandmamma Mary  A.  Denison.     70 

Bed-time  Story,  The Clara  Doty  Bates.  388 

Bees,  The Hastings'  Nursery  Songs.  274 

Beggar-Boy,  The Child's  Book  of  Poetry.  135 

Beggar-Girl,  The 139 

Beggar-Man,  The Lucy  Aiken.  133 

Beggar's  Petition,  The Thomas  Moss.  135 

Bells,  The Edgar  Allan  Poe.  512 

Benny Annie  Chambers-Ketchum.  408 

Be  Polite S6 

Bessie  Bell Youth's  Penny  Gazette.  106 

Beth-Gelert William  Robert  Spencer.  195 

Better  Land,  The Felicia  Hemans.  375 

Beware  of  the  Wolf A.  L.  O.  E.  475 

Bird  and  the  Maid,  The 230 

Bird's-eye  View,  A. 230 

Birds  in  Summer Mary  Howitt.  228 

Bird's  Nest,  The Alexander  Smart.  237 

Birds'  Nests M.S.  C.  231 

Bishop  Hatto Robert  Southey.  464 

Blind  Boy,  The C.  Cibber.  151 

Blind  Boy,  The Hannah  F.  Gould.  151 

Blind  Boy,  The ■ Rev.  Dr.  Haicks.  150 

Blind  Man,  The 152 

Blind  Steed,  The  (from  the  German), 

Rev.  C.  T.  Brooks.  1S2 

Blue-Bird,  The Emily  Huntington  Miller.  245 

Bonnie  Milk-Cow,  The. Alexander  Smart.  185 

Boy  and  Lark Lydia  H.  Sigourney.  254 

Boy  and  the  Ass,  The 185 

Boy  and  the  Robin,  The, 

Rey.  F.  C.   Woodworth.  23S 

Boy's  Complaint  about  Butter C.  Gilman.  115 

1 


INDEX    OF    THE    NAMES    OF    THE   POEMS. 


Page 

Boys'  Play  and  Girls'  Play Mrs.  Hawlrey.     60 

Boy's  Song James  Hogg.  318 

Boy's  Wish,  The 105 

Boy  who  Told  a  Lie,  A 113 

Brook,  The 335 

Bruce  and  the  Spider Bernard  Barton.  487 

Burial  of  Moses,  The.  Cecil  Frances  Alexander.  389 

Burial  of  Sir  John  Moore Charles  Wolfe.  505 

Busy  Little  Husbandman 169 

Buttercups  and  Daisies Mary  Hoioitt.  287 

Butterfly  Blue  and  Grasshopper  Yellow, 

01  ire  A.   Wadsioorth.  271 
Butterfly's  Ball,  The William  Koscoe.  272 

Camel,  The ..Mary  Hoioitt.   179 

Captain's  Daughter,  The James  T.  Fields.  163 

Casabianca Felicia  Hemans.  163 

Castles  in  the  Air James  Ballantyne.     77 

Cataract  of  Lodore,  The Robert  Southey.  341 

Catching  the  Cat Margaret  Vandegrift.  223 

Cat's  Apology,  The 225 

Cat's  Thanksgiving  Day,  The, 

Youth's  Companion.  218 

Chameleon,  The James  Merrick.  514 

Charge  of  the  Light  Brigade,  The, 

Alfred  Tennyson.  500 

Charley  and  his  Father Eliza  Fallen.  325 

Charlotte  Pulteney,  To Ambrose  Philips.     26 

Chatterbox,  The Jane  Taylor.  112 

Cherries  are  Bipe Hastings'  Nursery  Songs.  293 

Chevy-Chase,  Ballad  of 479 

Chickens,  The D.  A.  T.  258 

Child  and  the  Star,  The C.  B.  349 

Children  in  the  Wood,  The 456 

Children's  Hour,  The H.   W.  Longfellow.     55 

Children's  Praises 373 

Child's  Desire,  The Mrs.  Luke.  363 

Child's  Evening  Prayer,  A....S.  T.  Coleridge.  370 

Child's  Prayer,  A "Household  Words."  36S 

Child's  Thought  of  God,  A...E.  B.  Browning.  356 
Child's  Wish  in  June;,  The...  Caroline  Oilman.  322 

Chimney-Tops ....Marian  Douglas.  302 

Choiceof  Occupations  Caroline  Oilman.  169 

Choosing  a  Name Mary  Lamb.     22 

Christmas Rose  Terry  Cooke.  401 

Christmas Mrs.  Hawtrey.  401 

Christmas  Bells 403 

Christmas  Tree 393 

Cinderella 452 

Clean  Clara "Lilliput  Levee."   142 

Cleopatra Edgar  Fawcett.  218 

Clocking  Hen,  The Aunt  Effie's  Rhymes.  257 

Cobweb  made  to  Order,  A. .Aunt  Effie's  Rhymes.  268 


Page 

Come  here,  Little  Robin "Easy  Poetry."  239 

Come  into  the  Meadows 323 

Comforter,  A Adelaide  Anne  Procter.     51 

Common  Things 314 

Complaints  of  the  Poor,  The. .Robert  Southey.  137 

Convalescent 373 

Corn 291 

Counting  Baby's  Toes 25 

Country  Lad  and  the  River,  The 

Cow-Boy's  Song,  The Anna  M.  Wells. 

Cradle  Hymn Isaac  Watts. 

Cradle  Song Mary  M.  Boioen. 

Cradle  Song  (from  the  German)....^  Prentiss. 

Creep  before  you  Walk James  Ballantyne. 

Crow  and  the  Cheese,  The 

Crow's   Children,  The Phoebe  Cary. 


Dame  Duck's  Lecture Aunt  Effie's  Rhymes. 

Dead  Doll,  The Margaret  Vandegrift. 

Dear  Old  Flo S.  J.Stone. 

Deeds  of  Kindness '. 

Destruction  of  Sennacherib,  The.. Lord  Byron. 

Discontent Sarah   O.  Jewett. 

Discontented  Yew  Tree,  The, 

"Lilliput  Levee." 
Diverting  History  of  John  Gilpin,  The, 

William  Cowper. 

Doctor's  Visit 

Dog  of  St.  Bernard's,  The Miss  Fry. 

Dog  of  St.  Bernard's,  The 

Dogs'  Christmas  Dinner,  TA)e....K.  T.  Woods. 

Doll-baby  Show George  Cooper. 

Don't  Wake  the  Baby 

Dragon-Fly,  The Mary  Hoioitt. 

Dream  about  the  Old  Nursery-Rhymes,  A, 

M.  H.  F.  D. 
Dream   of  Summer,  A Mary  N.  Prescott. 


335 

186 

364 

34 

30 

27 

252 

252 

261 

45 

199 

88 
501 
108 

293 

491 

43 

193 

193 

417 

45 

34 

275 

421 
321 


Early  Rising Lady  Flora  Hastings.  318 

Elegy  on  the  Death  of  a  Mad  Dog, 

Oliver  Goldsmith.  497 

Elephant  and  the  Child,  The 178 

Epitaph  on  a  Hare William  Cowper.  205 

Evening  Hymn Mary  Lundie  Duncan.  368 

Evening  Prayer  for  a  Young  Child 368 

Every  Little  Helps 308 

Eyes  of  the  Angels,  The. ...George  W.  Doane.  350 

Fairies,  The William  Allingham.  451 

Fairies  of  the  Caldon  Low,  The....M.  Howitt.  450 

.Fjiith  in  God Rev.  Dr.  Hawks.  379 

Farewell,  A Charles  Kingsley.  174 

Farm,  The Ja-'e  Taylor.  171 


INDEX    OF    THE   NAMES    OF    THE    POEMS. 


Page 

Farm-yard  Song John  T.  Trowbridge.  172 

Father  at  Play Hannah  More  Johnson.     40 

Father  is  Coming Mary  Howitt.     66 

Fete-Day  of  the  Flowers.  The 284 

Few  Stray  Sunbeams,  A Eliza  S.  Turner.  312 

Filial  Trust 164 

Five  Things S3 

Flowers 2S5 

Fly,  The Bruce.  266 

Fly,  The Theodore  Tilton.  265 

Forest  Scene  in  the  Days  of  Wiekliffe,  A 382 

For  the  Children 355 

Fountain,  The James  Russdl  Lowell.  333 

Four  Seasons,  The 297 

Four  Seasons,  The 299 

Frog  he  would  a-wooing  Go,  A 264 

Frogs  at  School George  Cooper.  265 

Frost,  The Hannah  F.  Gould.  326 

Gardener's  Grandchild,  The..  J/rs.  Hawtrey.  281 

German  Watchman's  Song 376 

Glove  and  the  Lions,  The Leigh  Hunt.   504 

God  is  Good 357 

God  of  my  Childhood,  The F.   W.Faber.  35S 

Going  into  Breeches Mary  Lamb.     80 

Golden  Hair F.  B urge  Smith.      72 

Golden-tressed  Adelaide B.  W.  Procter.     40 

Gold  Robin,  The, 

''Home  Songs  for  our  Nestlings."  240 

Good-Morning  to  God Mary  T  Hamlin.  372 

Good  Name,  A 83 

Good-Night 351 

Good-Night Eliza   Fallen.  370 

Good-Night 371 

Good-Night 372 

Good-Night  and  Good-Morning.^.  M.  Milnes.  350 

Good  Rule,  A 84 

Good  Sabbath,  A 379 

Good  Shepherd,  The 366 

Gradation 257 

Grandmothers,  Johnny's  opinion  oLE.L. Beers.     71 

Grandmother's  Farm 170 

Grandpapa's  Spectacles Elizabeth  Sill.     73 

Grasshopper  and  the  Ant,  The 274 

Great  Brown  Owl,  The...  Aunt  Effie's  Rhymes.  251 

Hang  up  the  Baby's  Stocking.ZiWe  Corporal.  393 

Heavenly  Father,  The 357 

Heir  of  Linne 483 

Hellvellyn Sir   Walter  Scott.  509 

Help  the  Poor 13S 

Hetty  and  the  Fairies Matthias  Barr.  448 

Hohenlinden Thomas  Campbell.  506 


Tage 

Hold  fast  what  I  Give  you Lily   Warner.     49 

Holidays,  The Jane  Taylor.  126 

Honest  Poverty Robert  Burns.   51S 

Honey-Bee's  Song,  The 269 

How  doth  the  Little  Busy  Bee..../««ac  Watts.  266 

How  Sleep  the  Brave William  Collins.  505 

How  they  Brought  the  Good  News  from  Ghent 

to  Aix Robert  Browning.  495 

Hymn — "  I  want  to  be  like  Jesus  " 373 

Hymn  of  a  Child Charles  Wesley.  367 

Idle  Anna 116 

I  like  Little  Pussy Jane  Taylor.   211 

Ill-natured  Brier,  The Anna  Bache.  290 

I  Love  them  All 299 

I  Love  to  Tell  the  Story.." Sunday  at  Nome."  363 

Inehcape  Rock,  The Robert  Southey.  498 

Incident  of  the  French  Camp..../?.  Browning.   16S 

In  the  Closet ..Laura  E.  Richards.     65 

In  the  Cornfield 314 

Is  the  Moon  made  of  Green  Cheese? 

Nicholas  Nichols.  346 

It  Snows Hannah  F.  Gould.  329 

It  Snows 330 

I  want  to  be  an  Angel Sidney  P.  Gill.  374 

I  will  not  be  Afraid 379 

Jeannette  and  Jo Mary  Mapes  Dodge.     98 

Jem  and  the  Shoulder  of  Mutton...  J.  Taylor.  131 

Jesus,  see  a  Little  Child Matthias  Barr.  368 

Jesus  sees  You 367 

John  Gilpin,  The  Diverting  History  of, 

William  Cowper.  491 

Katv's  Guess 258 

Kitten  and  the  Falling  Leaves,  The, 

William    Wordsworth.  216 

Kitten  Gossip Thomas  Westwood.  224 

Kittie  to   Kriss 407 

Kitty Marian  Douglas.  106 

Kitty  in  the  Basket Eliza  Pollen.  209 

Knights  of  the  Cross A.  L.  O.  E.  384 

Lady-Bird,  To  the Caroline  B.  Southey.  274 

Lady-Bird  and  the  Ant,  The.i.  H.  Sigourney.  270 

Lady  Clare Alfred  Tennyson.  511 

Lady  Moon Richard  Monckton  Milnes.  346 

Lamb.  The William  Blake.  192 

Landing  of  the  Pilgrim  Fathers.  The. 

Felicia  D.  Hemans.  506 

Lark,  To  the 256 

Lark  and  the  Rook,  The 256 

Last  Day  of  the  Year,  The A.  Smart.  418 


INDEX    OF    THE   NAMES    OF    THE   POEMS. 


Page 
Last  Dying  Speech  and  Confession  of  Poor 

Puss Jane  Taylor.  220 

Lazy  Boy,  The j 116 

Lazy  Jane " Lullabies  and  Ditties."  118 

Learn  your  Lesson Alexander  Smart.     9S 

Leaves  and  the  Wind,  The George  Cooper.  304 


Let  Dogs  delight  to  Bark  and  Bite.../.   Watte. 
Letting  the  Old  Cat  Die. .Mary  Mapes  Lodge. 


Lily-of-the- Valley,  The."Rhyme  and  Reason."  286 

Lily's  Ball 286 

Lion,  The Mary  Howitt.  177 

Little  Bell T.   Westwood.   128 

Little  Birdie Alfred  Tennyson.     28 

Little  Bird's  Complaint  to  his  Mistress,  The, 

Jane  Taylor.  235 
Little  Boy  and  the  Sheep,  The,,. Ann  Taylor.  192 
Little  Boy  and  the  Stars,  The, 

Aunt  Effie's  Rhymes.  348 

Little  by  Little Luella  Clark.     86 

Little  Children,  Love  one  Another.vLoit  Mary.     53 

Little  Christel "Lilliput  Levee."     95 

Little  Dandelion Helen  Louisa  Bostwick.  288 

Little  Drummer,  The. .. Richard  H.  Stoddard.  166 

Little  Fingers "Apples  of  Gold."     58 

Little  Fish,  The 276 

Little  Girl's  Address  to  the  River,  The, 

Susan  Jewett.  338 

Little  Girl's  Fancies,  A , 280 

Little  Girl's  Letter,  A Wisconsin  Farmer.     41 

Little  Goose,  A Eliza  Sprout  Turner.     68 

Little  Gretchen Hans  Christian  Andersen.  410 

Little  Hare,  The Aunt  Effie's  Rhymes.  206 

Little  Harry's  Letter 3S0 

Little  Helpers , 57 

Little  Kit .....John  G.  Watts.  213 

Little  Lucy , A.  D.  F.  Randolph.  381 

Little  Maiden  and  the  Little.  Bird,  The, 

Lydia  Maria  Child.  230 

Little  Marian's  Pilgrimage 89 

Little  Ned  and  the  Shower 311 

Little  Pet,  The '^-Little  Corporal."     38 

Little  Raindrops Aunt  Effie's  Rhymes.  312 

Little  Red  Riding-Hood..., 472 

Little  Samuel 378 

Little  Schooner,  The, 

"Poems  Written  for  a  Child."  158 

Little  Star t  348 

Little  Story,  A Hester  A.  Benedict.     78 

Little  Sweet  Pea R.  P.  Utter.  2S9 

Little  Things Brewer.     86 

Little  White  Lily George  Macdonald.  284 

Lochinvar Sir  Walter  Scott.  502 

LordUllin's  Daughter Thomas  Campbell.  503 


Page 
Loss  of  the  Royal  George,  The....  17.  Cowper.  499 

Lost  Doll,  The Charles  Kingsley.     42 

Love  One  Another 94 

Lucy  Gray William  Wordsworth.  148 

Lullaby Shirley  Bare.     33 

Lullaby Thomas  Dekker.     31 

Lulu's  Complaint 17 

Mabel  on  Midsummer  Day Mary  Howitt.  430 

Making  Mud-pies 54 

Mamma's  Kisses 52 

Marjorie's  Almanac...  Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich.  302 

Mary  had  a  Little  Lamb 189 

Mary's  Pet Matthias  Barr.  243 

Meddlesome  Matty Jane  Taylor.  110 

Milkmaid,  The Jeffreys  Taylor.  Ill 

Milkmaid,  The 174 

Miller  of  Dee,  The Charles  Mackay.  103 

Minna  in  Wonderland M.  C.  Pyle.  434 

Minutes,  The 87 

Missionary  Hymn Reginald  Heber.  390 

Mistress's  Reply  to  her  Little  Bird,  The, 

Jane  Taylor.  235 
Money  at  Interest.  "Boys' and  Girls'  Magazine."  145 

Months,  The Sara  Coleridge.  297 

Morning  Hymn 369 

Morning  Song  in  the  Country 174 

Motherless  Turkeys,  The Marian  Douglas.  260 

Mr.  Nobody Riverside  Magazine.     37 

Music-Lesson,  The 101 

My  Boy  Jem Frederick  E.  Weatherly.  161 

My  Children ..J.  G.  Holland.     56 

My  Good-for-Nothing Emily  H.  Miller.     65 

My  Kittens 212 

My  Little  Hero 140 

My  Little  Sister 37 

My  Love  Annie.. Dinah  Maria  Mnlock  Craik.     39 

My  Mother , Jane  Taylor.     69 

My  Neighbors Emily  Huntington  Miller.  241 

My  Pussy 212 

My  Winter  Friend Marian  Douglas.  248 

Naming  the  Baby Mrs.  E.  C.  Bates.     20 

Naming  the  Baby Marian  Douglas.     20 

Napoleon  and  the  Sailor Thomas  Campbell.  164 

Nature's  Voice A.L.  O.  E.  352 

Nearest  Friend,  The Frederick  W.  Faber.  366 

Ne^  Doll,  The 44 

MW  Dresses S.  H.  Baker.  283 

New  Moon,  The Eliza  Follen.  345 

New  Year's  Gift,  A Jane  Taylor.  127 

Nightingale  and  the  Glow-worm,  The, 

William  Cowper.  257 


INDEX    OF    THE    NAMES    OF    THE    POEMS. 


Page 

Night  with  a  Wolf,  A Bayard  Taylor.  204 

Nine  Parts  of  Speech,  The J.  Neale.  83 

No  Act  falls  Fruitless 16S 

Nothing 143 

Nothing  to  Do 5S 

Not  Ready  for  School Caroline  Gilman.  115 

Now  the  Sun  is  Sinking 345 

Nursery  Song Mrs.  Carter.  188 

Nurse  Winter Susan  Coolidge.  328 

Ode  on  Solitude Alexander  Pope.  518 

Oh,  look  at  the  Moon Eliza  Fallen.  347 

Old  Apple  Tree,  The 293 

Old  Cato 108 

Old  Christmas Mary  Howitt.  400 

Old  Man's  Comforts,  The Robert  Southey.  109 

Old,  Old  Story,  The Kate  Hankey.  359 

Old  Story-Books Eliza  Cook.  422 

Old  Winter  is  Coming 327 

One  Thing  at  a  Time .1/.  .4.  Stodart.     SS 

Only  a  Baby  Small Matthias  Barr.     15 

Only  Five  Minutes Mrs.  M.  L.  Rayne.     87 

Open  Door.The 377 

Orphan  Boy,  The  Amelia  Opie.  149 

Our  Baby.  24 

Our  Flowers Youth's  Companion.  282 

Over  in  the  Meadow Olive  A.  Wadsioorth.  262 

Over  the  Fence 119 

Palace  and  Cottage,  The Jane  Taylor.  102 

Parable  of  St.  Christopher,  The..Helen  Hunt.  385 

Parrot,  The Thomas  Campbell.  250 

Patient  Joe Hannah  More.   103 

Pet  Lamb,  The William  Wordsworth.   190 

Philip,  my  King. Dinah  Maria  Mnlock  Craik.     32 

Picture,  A Charles  G.  Eastman.     75 

Pied  Piper  of  Hamelin,  The R.  Browning.  467 

Piper,  The William  Blake.     80 

Playing  King Alfred  Selwyn.     48 

Playing  with  Pussy 210 

Plum  Cake,  The Jane  Taylor.  132 

Polly "Lilliput  Levee."     64 

Polly  Pansy 34 

Polly's  Dolly 41 

Pond,  The Jane  Taylor.  259 

Poor  Katy Mrs.  M.  A.  Denison.  141 

Poor  Little  Jim 141 

Power  of  Littles,  The S5 

Praise  for  Mercies Isaac  Watts.  139 

Praise  for  Mercies 373 

Prayer  for  a  Little  Child 367 

Principle  put  to  the  Test William  Cowper.   119 

Puss  and  the  Bear 219 


Page 

Puss  and  the  Parrot 251 

Puss  Punished 222 

Pussy  Cat \unt  Efjit's  Rhymes.  215 

Pussy's  Class  Mary  Mapes  Dodge.  219 

Pussy's  Hiding-place Aunt  Clara.  211 

Rabbit  on  the  Wall,  The Catherine  Allan.     61 

Rain,  The Lnra  Anna  Boies.  310 

Rain,  The Mrs.  E.A.  Harriman.  309 

Rain,  The Mrs.  Wells.  309 

Rainbow,  The Clayton.  344 

Rain-Song,  The R.  P.  Utter.  310 

Rain,  Wind,  and  Snow,  The, 

"Rhyme  and  Reason."   306 

Raven  and  the  Oak,  The S'.  T.  Coleridge.  253 

Ready  for  Duty Miss  Warner.  288 

Redbreast  chasing  the  Butterfly, 

William   Wordsworth.  242 

Richest  Prince,  The 100 

Robert  of  Lincoln William  Culleii  Bryant.  246 

Robin,  The Susan  Jeioett.  237 

Robin,  The 240 

Robin  Redbreast William  Alliugham.  239 

Robin's  Christmas  Eve,  The C.  E.  B.  412 

Robinson  Crusoe,  Adventures  of 458 

Robin's  Song,  The 241 

Roland  and  his  Friend .1/.  C.  Pyle.  442 

"Run,  Mousey,  run  !" 226 

Sailor  and  the  Monkeys,  The 179 

Sailor  Boy  and  his  Mother,  The M.  Barr.  152 

Sailor  Boy's  Dream,  The,...  William  Dimond.  154 

Sailor  Boy's  Gossip,  The Eliza  Cook.  152 

Sands  of  Dee,  The Charles  Kingsley.  497 

Seasons,  The .' 298 

Selling  the  Baby 25 

Seven  Times  One Jean  Ingelow.     76 

Shall  the  Baby  Stay? 16 

Shepherd's  Dog,  The Matthias  Barr.  196 

Silkworm,  The, Mary  Howitt.  275 

Singing-Lesson,  The  Jean  Ingelow.  255 

Sir  Patrick  Spens 477 

Sir  Ponto's  Party Professor  Bruns.  202 

Skating Susan  Jewett.  332 

Sleeping  Beauty,  The Georgiana  M' Neil.  424 

Sleeping  Beauty,  The  Alfred  Tennyson.  426 

Sleeping  Child,  A Arthur  Hugh  Clough.     2S 

Sleepy  Little  Sister,  The 61 

Sluggard,  The Isaac  Watts.  118 

Snow-bird's  Song,  The F.  C.   Woodworth.  247 

Snowfall,  The 329 

Snow-Storm,  The 330 

Soldier's  Dream,  The Thomas  Campbell.   165 


INDEX    OF   THE    NAMES    OF    THE   POEMS. 


Page 

Song John  Keats.   245 

Song  for  May  Morning 319 

Song  of  Life 94 

Song  of  the  Bee,  The Marian  Douglas.  270 

Song  of  the  Brook Alfred  Tennyson.  336 

Song  of  the  Brook,  The 337 

Song  of  the  Elfin  Miller. ..Allan  Cunningham.  429 

Song  of  the  Seed-Corn,  The 324 

Sparrow's  Nest,  The Mary  Howitt.  249 

Spider  and  the  Fly,  The Mary  Howitt.  267 

Spring Bernard  Barton.  315 

Spring  and  the  Flowers 315 

Spring  Voices 314 

Spring,  Walk,  The Thomas  Miller.  316 

Squirrel,  The Mary  Howitt.  207 

Squirrel,  The  207 

Squirrel,  The Bernard  Barton.  208 

Squirrel,  The 208 

Star-Spangled  Banner Francis  Scott  Key.  508 

Stolen  Top,  The "Lullabies  and  Ditties."  121 

Stop,  stop,  Pretty  Water Eliza  Follen.  333 

Story  of  Hans,  The, 

11  Stories  and  Rhymes  for  Children."  125 

Strange  Child's  Christmas,  The 409 

Streamlet,  The M.  A.  Stodart.  339 

"  Suffer  the  Little  Ones  to  come  unto  Me"  J.Gill.  365 

Summer Eliza  Cook.  319 

Summer  Woods Mary  Howitt.  321 

Sunbeam,  To  a 313 

Sunday 379 

Sunshine  and  Showers 99 

Suppose Phoebe   Cary.  101 

Swallow  and  Redbreast W.  L.  Bowles.  242 

Sweet  and  Low Alfred  Tennyson.     33 

Sweets  of  Liberty,  The 244 

Ten  Commandments,  The 374 

Thank  you,  Pretty  Cow Fane  Taylor.   ISO 

ThatCalf! Phcebc  Gary.   187 

There  is  a  Happy  Land Andrew   Young.  375 

They  Didn't  Think Phoebe  Cary.  228 

Three  Fishers,  The Charles  Kingsley.  154 

Three  Warnings Hester  Thrale  Piozzi.  515 

Tiger William  Blake.   US 

To  a  Dear  Little  Truant. ..Frances  S.  Osgood. .-"SIS 

Toad's  Good-bye  to  the  Children,  The 263 

To  a  Little  Girl  that  has  told  a  Lie.../.  Taylor.  114 

To  a  Sunbeam .  313 

To  Charlotte  Pulteney Ambrose  Philips.     26 

Tommy  and  his  Shilling. ...Mrs.  S.  W.  Jewett.  134 

Tommy's  Army^ Frederick  E.   Weatherly.     47 

To  the  Lady-Bird. ...Caroline  Bowles  Soutliey.  274 
To  the  Lark 256 


Page 

Tour  of  St.  Nicholas,  The... Rev.  Ralph  Hoyt.  396 

Tree,  The Bjornstjerne  Bjornson.  292 

True  Love 74 

True  Story,  A  Jane  Taylor.  143 

Truth 83 

Truthful  Dotlie C.  L.  M.  112 

Try,  Try  Again 85 

Turtle-Dove's  Nest,  Th6..Aunt '  Effies  Rhymes.  245 

Two  and  One  84 

Two  Dimes,  The 146 

Two  Friends,  The Susan  Jewett.  200 

Two  Little  Kittens,  The 214 

Two  Pictures .Marian  Douglas.  105 

Two  Travellers,  The 123 

Under  my  Window Thomas  Westwood.  62 

Unfinished  Pra3rer    The 370 

Use  of  Flowers,  The Mary  Howitt.  280 

Use  of  Sight,  The Jane  Taylor.  124 

Vacation Beverly  Moore.  129 

Verges  supposed  to   be  written   by  Alexander 

Selkirk William  Cowper.  464 

Violet,  The Jane  Taylor.  289 

Visit  from  St.  Nicholas,  A C.  C.  Moore.  394 

Voice  of  the  Grass,  The Sarah  Roberts.  291 

Vo3-age  in  the  Ann-chair 46 

Waiting  for  the  May Marian  Douglas.  314 

Walk  in  Spring,  A M.  A.  Stodart.  317 

Wasp  and  the  Bee,  The 272 

Waves  on  the  Seashore,  The, 

Aunt  Effies  Rhymes.  341 

We  are  Seven William  Wordsworth.  75 

Weighing  the  Baby Ethel  Lynn  Beers.  22 

What? Kate  Putnam  Osgood.  50 

What  are  they  Doing? 227 

What  God  sees 356 

"What  is  that,  Mother V... George  W.  Doane.  238 

AVhat  Makes  me  Happiest? 100 

What  so  Sweet? Mary  N.Preseott.  320 

What  the  Choir  sang  about  the  New  Bonnet, 

Miss  Hammond.  122 
AVhat  the  Sparrow  Chirps, 

Poems  of  Home  Life.  249 

AVhat  the  Tiny  Drop  Did 308 

AVhat  the  Tiny  Drop  Said 307 

AArhat  Way  does  the  AA'ind  come? 

A  Sister  of    William  Wordsioorth.  300 

AArhere  did  you  Come  from? G.  Maedonald.  21 

AAThich  is  your  Lot? 133 

Which  Loved  Best? Joy  Allison.  72 

AVho  was  Santa  Claus  ? 402 


INDEX    OF    THE    NAMES    OF    THE    POEMS. 


Page 
Who  Stole  the  Bird's  Nest?. .Lydia  M.  Child.  233 

William  Tell Rev.  J.  H.  Gurney.  Alb 

Willie  and  the  Apple M.  A.  D.  120 

Willie  Winkie William  Miller.     49 

Wind  in  a  Frolic,  The William  Hoivitt.  305 

Winnie 25 

Winter  Jewels 329 

Wish,  A Rose  Terry  Cooke.  334 

Wish,  A Samuel  Rogers.  517 

Wishing William  Allingham.     77 

Wives  of  Brixham,  The M.  B.  S.   156 


Page 

Wonderful  House,  The."  Rhyme  and  Reason."  423 

Woodman,  Spare  that  Tree  ! G.  P.  Morris.  292 

World,  The " Lilliput  Lectures,"  281 

Wreck  of  the  Hesperus,  The.//.  W.  Longfellow.  161 
Written  in  March William  Wordsworth.  303 

Young  Girl  to  her  Little  Brother,  A, 

Aunt  Mary.      29 
Young  Mouse,  The 226 

Zara's  Ear-rings John  Gibson  Lockhart.   510 


List  of  Illustrations. 


Subject.  Artist.  Page 

"  'Dear  ladies,'  she  cries,  and  the  tears  trickle  down,  'relieve  a  poor 

beggar,  I  pray'  "...  R.  Barnes Frontispiece. 

Only  a  Baby  Small R.  Barnes 15 

Lulu's    Complaint From  a  Berlin  Photograph.  17 

Baby   May T.  H.   Wilson 19 

Where  did  you  Come  from  ? Fr.  A.  Kaulbach 21 

Our  Baby George   Bensell 24 

Winnie M.  Ellen  Edwards 25 

Baby-Land , 27 

"My  pretty  baby  brother" E.  B.  Bensell 29 

Baby  Paul From  a  Berlin  Photograph.  31 

"  Look  at  me  with  thy  large  brown  eyes  " R.  Barnes 32 

"  While  my  pretty  one  sleeps  " A.  W.  Bayes 33 

My  Little  Sister After  Sir  Thomas  Lawrence.  37 

"I'm  just  a  wee-bit  lassie" From  a  Berlin  Photograph.  38 

Annie Ludwig  Passini 39 

Golden-tressed  Adelaide 40 

"And  to  you  I  sing  my  song" Mrs.  Harrison 42 

Doctor's  Visit Oscar  Pletsch 43 

The  New  Doll 44 

Tommy's  Army F.  Tegetmeyer 4S 

"I  and  Effie  will  sit  together" M.  Ellen  Edwards 51 

"Sat  slowly  reading  a  ponderous  book  " Mrs.  Harrison 53 

The  Children's  Hour E.   B.  Bensell 55 

"  Freeing  the  garden  from  weeds  " R.  Barnes 57 

Little  Fingers From  a  Berlin  Photograph.  58 

Nothing  to  Do 17.  Small 59 

"I  will  be  a  grizzly  bear" R.  Barnes 60 

Letting  the  Old  Cat  die 63 

Polly J.  E.  Millais 64 

"  The  father's  work  is  done  "  F.  A.  Chapman 66 

Father  is  Coming F.  A.  Chapman 67 

"  Who  ran  to  help  me  when  I  fell  " A.  W.  Bayes 69 

Beautiful  Grandmamma 70 

"Golden  Hair  climbed  upon  Grandpapa's  knee  " George  G.  White 72 

"  How  much  I  love  you,  mother  dear" H.  Faber 74 

Castles  in  the  Air 77 

"Children,  you  should  never  let  such  angry  passions  rise" H.  Faber 79 

Two  and  One Cerlier S4 

9 


10  LIST    OF   ILLUSTRATIONS. 

Subject.  Artist.  Page 

Try,  try  Again -. M.  Ellen  Edwards 85 

Deeds  of  Kindness M.  Ellen  Edwards 88 

Little   Christel G.  J.  Pin-well 95 

"Two  children  stood  at  their  father's  gate  " S'.  B 99 

"Touch  the  keys  lightly  " M.Ellen  Edwards 101 

"I  think  I'll  be  a  soldier" .4.  I).  L 105 

"Dear  mother,  why  do  all  the  girls  love  little  Bessie  Bell?" M.  Ellen  Edwards 107 

Meddlesome  Matty J.  Jellicoe 110 

"  Into  the  drawing-room  Dottie  comes  skipping  " Mrs.  Harrison 112 

"And  has  my  darling  told  a  lie  ?" M.  Ellen  Edwards 114 

"'Stay,  little  bee,'  she  cried" M.  K 117 

The  Woodpecker Giacomelli 124 

"All  strewed  with  broken  toys" A.  W.  Baycs 127 

Vacation W.  Small 130 

Jem  and  the  Shoulder  of  Mutton ./.  Jellicoe 131 

"Some  children  roam  the  fields  and  hills  " Addie  Ledyard 133 

The  Beggar  Boy E.  B.  Bensell 135 

The  Complaints  of  the  Poor Gustave  Bore 137 

"How  many  children  in  the  street  half  naked  I  behold" .1/.  Ellen  Edwards 139 

Lucy  Gray Sir  John  Gilbert 148 

"  Islands  far  out  in  the  ocean  " E.  T. 153 

"The  masts  fly  in  splinters — the  shrouds  are  on  fire" 155 

The  Little  Schooner Granville  Perkins 158 

"  Driven  like  a  cloud  upon  a  cruel  lee-shore" 160 

"  And  the  skipper  had  taken  his  little  daughter  " 162 

Busy  little  Husbandman F.  A.  Chapman 169 

Grandmother's  Farm 170 

The  Farm 171 

"The  patient  cow,  with  dappled  hide" F.  A.  Chapman 172 

"  The  cattle  come  crowding  through  the  gate  " E.  M.  Wimperis 173 

Lions  and  Tiger Zwecker 177 

The  Arab  and  his  Horse L.  Wells 181 

"And,  hark!  the  doom  bell  clangs!" Ernest  Grizet 183 

The  Boy  and  the  Ass Harrison  Weir 185 

"Thank  you,  pretty  cow" Emile  Bayard 186 

That  Calf H.  W.  Herrick 187 

"  Drink,  pretty  creature,  drink  " George  H.  Thomas 191 

The  Lamb 192 

The  Dog  of  St.  Bernard's L.  Wells 194 

The  Shepherd's  Dog i^. L.  Wells 197 

"Stand  up,  and  listen  like  a  dear  old  Flo  " 199 

The  Two  Friends E.  B.  Bensell 201 

Cowper's  Hares 205 

The  Little  Hare F.  W.  Keyl 206 

"  The  hounds  are  in  full  cry  " 207 

The  Squirrel 2°9 

Playing  with  Pussy •/.  O.  S 210 

I  like  Little  Pussy 211 

My  Pussy 212 

Little  Kit 213 

"  Pussy  cat  lives  in  the  servants'  hall" Harrison  Weir 215 

The  Kitten  and  the  Falling  Leaves /'.  W.  Keyl 216 

Cleopatra Miss  C.  S.  Post 218 


LIST    OF   ILLUSTRATIONS.  H 


Subject.  Artist.  Page 

Birds  in  Summer Giacomelli 229 

Birds'  Nest li-  Moore.. 231 

Giacomelli 232 


Baby  Birds 

Win,  stole  the  Bird's  Nest? J-  G-  &••• 

The  Mistress's  Reply  to  her  Little  Bird ■/•   Lawson 236 

"  Trills  a  wild  carol,  so  mellow  and  clear" Giacomelli 241 

Mary's  Pet 243 

My  Winter  Friend 248 

The  Crow  and  the  Cheese A-  T-  Elwes 252 

••She  only  sang  to  the  skies" Giacomelli 255 

The  Chicken 258 

"So  into  the  pond  the  young  chicken  she  flew  " B.  Moore 259 

The  Spider  and  the  Fly Harrison   Weir 267 

Butterfly  Blue M ! 271 

Bird  and  Snake 276 

"  The  purple-headed  mountain,  the  river  running  by  " R.   Assmus 279 

"  The  wonderful  air  is  over  me  " F.  DUrch 281 

"Annie  loves  the  rose  " 282 

Flowers 285 

"Playing  in  their  sturdy  health  by  their  mother's  door" M.  Ellen  Edwards 287 

The   Violet T.  Kennedy 289 

The  Tree 292 

"  January  brings  the  snow  " 297 

Winter 298 

"  The  spring  has  many  charms  for  me" , 299 

"  Birds  are  in  the  woodland,  buds  are  on  the  tree" Meaulle 300 

What  Way  does  the  Wind  Come? 301 

"  Black  bough  and  bent  twig  budding  out  anew  " 303 

"  Mother  'doing  peaches'" M.  Ellen  Edwards 303 

'•  The  lake  doth  glitter" Meaulle 304 

The  Wind  in  a  Frolic W.  L.  Sheppard 305 

"  Snow  !  snow  !  pure  white  snow  !" 307 

"And  now  this  hateful  rain  comes  down" M.  Ellen  Edwards 311 

"  Across  the  bridge  by  the  water-mill  " E.  M.  Wimperis 316 

Summer F.  B.  Sehell 320 

"  Come  ye  into  the  summer  woods" 321 

'•Books  and  work  I  no  more  should  -see" W.  T.  C.  Dobson,  A.  R.  A..  323 

"  Golden  Autumn  comes  again  " E.  M.  Wimperis 325 

Old  Winter  is  Coming 327 

It   Snows R.  Sayer 331 

"  Be  my  fairy,  mother" M.  Ellen  Edwards 334 

The  Brook 335 

"I  bubble  into  eddying  bays" 336 

"Through  grassy  meadows  flowing" F.  E.  Lummis 337 

"  O'er  precipices  steep  " Meaulle 338 

"  I  saw  a  little  streamlet  flow  along  a  peaceful  vale  " 340 

The  waves  on  the  seashore Miss  G.  S.  Post 341 

The  Cataract  of  Lodore E.  M.  Wimperis 343 

The   Rainbow Henry  Dawson 344 

Now  the  Sun  is  Sinking Meaulle 345 

Oh,  look  at  the  moon  ! 347 

The  Little  Boy  and  the  Stars 348 


12  LIST    OF   ILLUSTRATIONS. 

Subject.  Aetist.  Page 

"Afairlittle  girl  sat  under  a  tree  " „ H.  C.  Selous 350) 

Good-Night F.  A.  Chapman 351 

"Come  stand  by  my  knee,  little  children  " E.  B.  Bensell 355 

"  God  is  ever  good" 357, 

The  Holy  Family .' Andrea  del  Sarto 359 

"  And  found  him  in  a  manger" H.  C.  Selotts 361 

"Suffer  the  little  ones  to  come  unto  me" Jouvenet 365 

"Suffer  me  to  come  to  thee" M.  Ellen  Edwards 367 

Awake J.  E.  Miliars 369 

Child's  Evening  Prayer George  H.  Thomas 370 

There  is  a  Happy  Land F.  A.  Chapman 375 

Eli  and  Samuel 378 

A  Forest  Scene  in  the  Days  of  Wickliffe George  G.  White 382 

A  Visit  from  St.  Nicholas Frederick  B.  Schell 394 

The  Tour  of  St.  Nicholas Frederick  B.  Schell 396 

Christmas  Bells E.  M.  Wimperis 403 

The  Sleeping  Beauty Gustave  Dore" 425 

"  Which  do  you  choose,  the  red  or  the  blue  ?" Frederick  B.  Schell 437 

"  And  a  troop  of  wonderful   figures   pour,  from   the  open  lid  to  the 

earthen  floor" Frederick  B.  Schell 439 

"  He  poured  the  water  along  their  track  " Frederick  B.  Schell 445 

"  Dear  Hetty  had.  read  in  a  curious  book  " 449 

Cinderella Gustave  Bore 454 

"Made  tables,  chairs,  and  stools" 459 

Crusoe  and  his  Parrot ' 460 

Crusoe  and  Friday 461 

Friday  finds  his  Father 462 

Bishop  Hatto's  Tower  and  Drachenfels R.  Piittner 465 

Little  Red  Riding  Hood 473 

John  Gilpin George  H.  Thomas 493 

How  they  Brought  the  Good  News  from  Ghent  to  Aix 495 


BABY-  DAYS. 


Baby-Days. 


—  * 


ONLY  A  BABY  SMALL. 

Only  a  baby  small, 

Dropt  from  the  skies ; 
Only  a  laughing  face, 

Two  sunny  eyes ; 
Only  two  cherry  lips, 

One  chubby  nose; 
Only  two  little  hands, 

Ten  little  toes. 

Only  a  golden  head, 

Curly  and  soft ; 
Only  a  tongue  that  wags 

Loudly  and  oft ; 
Only  a  little  brain 

Empty  of  thought ; 
Only  a  little  heart 

Troubled  with  naught. 

Only  a  tender  flower, 

Sent  us  to  rear ; 
Only  a  life  to  love 

While  we  are  here ; 


Only  a  baby  small, 

Never  at  rest ; 
Small,  but  how  dear  to  us 

God  knoweth  best. 

Matthias  Bake. 


ANOTHER  LITTLE  WAVE. 

Another  little  wave 
Upon  the  sea  of  life ; 

Another  soul  to  save 
Amid  its  toil  and  strife. 


Two  more  little  feet 

To  walk  the  dusty  road  ; 

To  choose  where  two  paths  meet- 
The  narrow  and  the  broad. 


Two  more  little  hands 
To  work  for  good  or  ill ; 

Two  more  little  eyes, 
Another  little  will. 


Another  heart  to  love, 

Receiving  love  again ; 
And  so  the  baby  came, 

A  thing  of  joy  and  pain. 

Lucy  Evelina  Akerma.v 


15 


16 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY 


BABY. 

"  What  is  this  pretty  little  thing 
That  nurse  so  carefully  doth  bring, 
And  round  its  head  a  blanket  fling  ? 
A  baby ! 

"  Oh  dear  !  how  very  soft  its  cheek ! 
Why,  nurse,  I  cannot  make  it  speak, 
And  it  can't  walk,  it  is  so  weak. 
A  baby ! 

"  Oh,  I  am  afraid  that  it  will  die ; 
Why  can't  it  eat  as  well  as  I, 
And  jump  and  talk  ?     Do  let  it  try, 
Poor  baby!" 

"  Why,  you  were  once  a  baby  too, 
And  could  not  jump  as  now  you  do, 
But  good  mamma  took  care  of  you, 
Like  baby. 

"  And  then  she  taught  your  little  feet 
To  pat  along  the  carpet  neat, 
And  called  papa  to  come  and  meet 
His  baby. 

"  Oh  dear  mamma,  to  take  such  care, 
And  no  kind  pains  and  trouble  spare 
To  feed  and  nurse  you  when  you  were 
A  baby !" 

Jane  Taylor. 


SHALL  THE  BABY  STAY? 

In  a  little  brown  house, 
With  scarce  room  for  a  mouse, 
Came,  with  morning's  first  ray, 
One  remarkable  day 
(Though  who  told  her  the  way 
I  am  sure  I  can't  say), 
A  young  lady  so  wee 
That  you  scarcely  could  see 
Her  small  speck  of  a  nose  ; 
And,  to  speak  of  her  toes — 


Though  it  seems  hardly  fair, 
Since  they  surely  were  there  ; 
Keep  them  covered  we  must — 
You  must  take  them  on  trust. 

Now  this  little  brown  house, 
With  scarce  room  for  a  mouse, 
Was  quite  full  of  small  boys, 
With  their  books  and  their  toys, 
Their  wild  bustle  and  noise. 

"My  dear  lads,"  quoth  papa, 

"  We've  too  many  by  far ; 
Tell  us  what  we  can  do 
With  this  damsel  so  blue  ? 
We've  no  room  for  her  here  ; 
So  to  me  'tis  quite  clear, 
Though  it  gives  me'  great  pain, 
I  must  hang  her  again 
On  the  tree  whence  she  came 
(Do  not  cry,  there's  no  blame), 
With  her  white  blanket  round  her. 
Just  as  Nurse  Russell  found  her." 

Said  stout  little  Ned  : 
"  I'll  stay  all  day  in  bed, 
Squeezed  up  nice  and  small 
Very  close  to  the  wall." 

Then  spoke  Tommy  :  "  I'll  go 
To  the  cellar  below ; 
I'll  just  travel  about, 
But  not  try  to  get  out 
Till  you're  all  fast  asleep, 
Then  up  stairs  I  will  creep ; 
And  so  quiet  I'll  be 
You'll  not  dream  it  is  me." 

Then  flaxen-haired  Will : 
"  I'll  be  dreffully  still ; 
On  the  back  stairs  I'll  stay, 
Way  off,  out  of  way." 

Master  Johnny,  the  fair, 
Shook  his  bright,  curly  hair  : 


BABY-DATS. 


17 


Here's  a  nice  place  for  me, 
Dear  papa,  do  you  see? 
I  just  fit  in  so  tight 
I  could  stand  here  all  night." 
And  a  niche  in  the  wall 
Held  his  figure  so  small. 

Quoth  the  father :  "  Well  done, 
My  brave  darlings  !  come  on  ! 
Here's  a  shoulder  for  Will, 
Pray  sit  still,  sir,  sit  still  : 
Valiant  Thomas,  for  thee 
A  good  seat  on  my  knee ; 
And  Edward,  thy  brother, 
Can  perch  on  the  other ; 
Baby  John,  take  my  back. 
Now,  who  says  we  can't  pack  ? 

So,  love  gives  us  room, 
And  our  birdie  shall  stay. 

We'll  keep  her,  my  boys. 
Till  God  takes  her  away." 


LULU'S  COMPLAINT. 

I'se  a  poor  'it tie  sorrowful  baby, 
For  Bidget  is  'way  clown  stairs  ; 

My  titten  has  scatched  my  finer, 
And  Dolly  won't  say  her  p'ayers. 

I  hain't  seen  my  bootiful  mamma 

Since  ever  so  long  ado  ; 
An'  I  ain't  her  tunninest  baby 
.    No  londer,  for  Bidget  says  so. 

Mamma's  dot  anoder  new  baby ; 

Docl  dived  it — he  did — yes'erday 
And  it  kies,  it  kies' — oh,  so  defful ! 

I  wis'  He  would  tate  it  away. 

I  don't  want  no  "  sweet  'ittle  sister  : 
I  want  my  dood  mamma,  I  do  ; 

I  want  her  to  tiss  me,  and  tiss  me, 
An'  tall  me  her  p'ecious  Lulu. 

2 


I  des  my  dear  papa  will  bin'  me 
A  "ittle  dood  titten  some  day  ; 
Here's  nurse  wid  my  mamma's  n<  w 

baby  ; 
I  wis'  she  would  tate  it  away. 

Oh,  oh !  what  tunnin'  red  fin'ers  ! 

It  sees  me  'ite  out  of  its  eyes ; 
I  dess  we  will  teep  it,  and  dive  it 

Some  can'y  whenever  it  kies. 

I  dess  I  will  dive  it  my  dolly 
To  play  wid  'mos'  every  day  ; 

And  I  dess,  I  dess —     Say,  Bidget, 
Ask  Dod  not  to  tate  it  away. 

THE  BABY. 
We've  got  a  baby  !    I  should  like  you 

to  come 
Just  to  see  the  baby  that  we  have  at 

home  : 
Oh,  it  is  such  a  baby  !  with  the  bluest 

little  eyes  ! 
And  its  mouth  !  you  should  only  see 

its  mouth  when  it  cries  ! 
Then  it  has  such  a  hand ! — like  mine, 

only  smaller ; 
And  it  cannot  walk  yet,  and  our  Pon- 

to  is  taller! 


18 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


It  has  the   queerest  little  feet,  with 

the  funniest  little  toes, 
And  something  which  papa  declares 

will  grow  into  a  nose. 
I  saw  it  this  morning — how  it  sucked 

its  little  thumb ! 
Oh,    it  is   such    a   baby !  —  now   do, 

Charlie,  come. 
Mother  says  you  may  see  it,  if  you 

will  not  make  a  noise ; 
Just  wait  till  nurse  has  gone  down 

stairs ;   you  know   she  hates   us 

bovs. 


Did  you  ever  have  a  baby  ?  we  have 

had  ours  a  week ; 
Nurse  says   it   soon  will   talk,  but  I 

never  heard  it  speak. 
And  what  is  strange,  they  let  it  cry 

and  scream  just  when  it  pleases, 
And  the  more  it  cries,  it  seems  to  me, 

the  less  mamma  it  teases. 
I  know  they  make  me  creep  about  as 

quiet  as  a  mouse : 
I  tell  youwhat,  it's  something — a  baby 

in  the  house  ! 


In  ma's  own  room  I  scarcely  dare]  to 

run  across  the  floor, 
It's  "  Do  be  still,"  or  "  Harry,  hush,"  or 

else,  "  Do  shut  the  door." 
I  don't  like  nurse — she's  always  there, 

and  says,  "  Now,  Harry,  go," 
Because  I  want  to  kiss  mamma  ;  but 

I  should  like  to  know 
If  she  is  not  as  much  my  ma,  now  as  a 

month  ago ! 
She  lets  the  baby  have  its  way — blesses 

its  little  eyes — 
Coaxes  and  pets  it  all  the  more,  the 

more  it  screams  and  cries. 


But  it  is  just  reversed  with  me !  I  know 

if  I  should  take 
Such  airs  on  me  as  baby   does   the 

moment  it's  awake, 
I  should  be  sure  to  find  myself  in  bed 

an  hour  too  soon, 
Or  have  my  hobby-horse  locked   up 

and  kept  an  afternoon. 

You  have  a  brother?     What  of  that? 

wait  till  you  have  a  sister ! 
I  wish  you  had  been  at  our  house  the 

first  time  that  I  kissed  her ! 
Such  a  warm  little  mouth  !  standing 

wide  open  so. 
A  boy's  no  great  things — I'm  one — I 

ought  to  know ! 
I'm  glad  she's  a  girl — I  know  all  my 

toys 
Would   last    as    long   again    but   for 

rough  little  boys  ! 
But  it's  well  you  have  one,  since  you 

can't  have  the  other, 
Though  I  would  not  change  my  sister 

for  any  little  brother. 
Perhaps  a  boy-baby  is  better  than  no 

baby  at  all, 
But  our  baby's  a  girl.     Did  you  hear 

father  call? 
There  he  is,  over  yonder — just  crossing 

the  street ; 
We  can  go  up  stairs  with  him.     Oh, 

Charlie,  wipe  your  feet ! 
For  nurse  looks  at  footmarks  with  a 

frown  as  black  as  thunder, 
And   mutters  to  herself,  "  What  are 

mats  for,  I  wonder?" 
Now  you  must  not  make  a  noise — 

please,  Charlie,  don't  forget. 
Papa   can   let   us  in — I  am  his  boy 

yet. 

Elizabeth  W.  Townsend. 


BABY- DAYS. 


19 


Cheeks  as  soft  as  July  peaches ; 
Lips  whose  velvet  scarlet  teaches 
Poppies  paleness ;  round  large  eyes 
Ever  great  with  new  surprise ; 
Minutes  filled  with  shadeless  gladness ; 
Minutes  just  as  brimmed  with  sad- 
ness; 
Happy  smiles  and  wailing  cries, 
Crows  and  laughs  and  tearful  eyes, 
Lights  and  shadows,  swifter  born 
Than  on  wind-swept  autumn  corn ; 
Ever  some  new  tiny  notion, 
Making  every  limb  all  motion, 
Catchings  up  of  legs  and  arms, 
Throwings  back  and  small  alarms, 
Clutching  fingers — straightening  jerks, 
Twining  feet  whose  each  toe  works,  . 
Kickings  up  and  straining  risings, 
Mother's  ever-new  surprisings ; 


Hands  all  wants,  and  looks  all  won- 
der 
At  all  things  the  heavens  under ; 
Tiny  scorns  of  smiled  reprovings 
That  have  more  of  love  than  lovings  ; 
Mischiefs  done  with  such  a  winning 
Archness  that  we  prize  such  sinning; 
Breakings  dire  of  plates  and  glasses, 
Graspings  small  at  all  that  passes ; 


20 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


Pullings  off  of  all  that's  able 
To  be  caught  from  tray  or  table ; 
Silences — small  meditations 
Deep  as  thoughts  of  cares  for  nations — 
Breaking  into  wisest  speeches 
In  a  tongue  that  nothing  teaches, 
All  the  thoughts  of  whose  possessing 
Must  be  wooed  to  light  by  guessing  ; 
Slumbers — such  sweet  angel-seemings 
That  we'd  ever  have  such  clreamings, 
Till  from  sleep  we  see  thee  breaking, 
And  we'd  always  have  thee  waking; 
Wealth  for  which  we  know  no  meas- 
ure, 
Pleasure  high  above  all  pleasure, 
Gladness  brimming  over  gladness, 
Joy  in  care — delight  in  sadness, 
Loveliness  beyond  completeness, 
Sweetness  distancing  all  sweetness, 
Beauty  all  that  beauty  may  be, 
That's  May  Bennett ;  that's  my  baby. 

William  C.  Bennett. 


NAMING  THE  BABY. 

You  have  birds  in  a  cage,  and  you've 

beautiful  flowers, 
But  you  haven't  at  your  house  what 

we  have  at  ours  ; 
;Tis  the  prettiest  thing  that  you  ever 

did  see, 
Just  as  clear  and  as  precious  as  pre- 
cious can  1  >e . 
'Tis  my  own  baby  sister,  just  seven 

days  old. 
And  too  little  for  any  but  grown  folks 

to  hold. 
Oh,  I  know  you  would  love  her;  she's 

fresh  as  a  rose, 
And  she  has  such  a  queer,  tiny  bit  of 

a  nose, 
And   the  dearest  and   loveliest   pink 

little  toes, 


Which,  I  tell  mother,  seem  only  made 

to  be  kissed  ; 
And  she  keeps  her  wee  hand  doubled 

up  in  a  fist. 
She  is  quite  without  hair,  but  she's 

beautiful  e}Tes — 
She  always  looks  pretty  except  when 

she  cries. 
And    what  name  we   shall   give   her 

there's  no  one  can  tell, 
For  my  father  says  Sarah,  and  mother 

likes  Belle  ; 
And    my  great-uncle   John — he's   an 

old-fashioned  man — 
Wants  her  named  for  his  wife  that  is 

dead — Mary  Ann. 
But  the  name  /  have  chosen  the  dar- 
ling to  call 
Is  a  name  that  is  prettier  far  than 

them  all, 
And  to  give  it  to  Baby  my  heart  is 

quite  set- 
It  is  Violet  Martha  Rose  Stella  Mar- 

zette. 

Marian  Douglas: 


NAMING  THE  BABY. 

What  shall  we  name  the  darling 
Who  came  to  us  one  day  ? 

Shall  we  call  her  our  little  Mary, 
Estelle,  or  Ida,  or  May  ? 

Mabel,  or  Saxon  Edith, 
Or  Margaret,  fairest  pearl  ? 

Will  Isabelle,  tall  and  stately, 
Be  fitting  our  little  girl  ? 

Shall  we  call  her  gentle  Alice? 

Or  Madge,  for  her  dark-brown  lu.ir? 
Is  she  like  a  Rose  just  opening, 

Or  a  Lily  pure  and  fair? 


BAB  1'- DAI'S. 


21 


Shall  we  name  her  Helen  or  Laura, 
Sweet  Hope,  or  darling  Grace  ? 

Will  Belle,  Louise,  or  Anna 

Match  best  with  the  baby's  face? 

Lottie,  or  Hattie,  or  Jennie, 
Winnie,  or  romping  Kate, 

Josephine,  proud  and  stately, 
Or  Bertha,  grave  and  sedate  ? 

No  name  that  just  fits  you,  dearie. 

Then  what  shall  the  little  one  do  ? 
Must  she  wander,  forlorn  and  name- 
less, 

The  years  of  her  life  all  through  ? 

We  will  call  you  all  sweet  names, 
darling, 

That  are  found  in  household  lore ; 
Should  they  be  too  small  a  number, 

We  will  study  to  make  them  more. 

We  will  call  you  our  brown  Snow- 
birdie, 

Fairy,  and  Daisy,  and  Elf, 
Darling,  and  Dottie,  and  Dimple. — 

Names  fitting  your  own  sweet  self. 

Some  morn  or  propitious  even 
Shall  bring  you  a  name  to  bear ; 

Some  name  with  a  musical  cadence 
Shall  our  little  baby  wear. 

Mrs.  E.  C.  Bates. 


WHERE  DID  YOU  COME  FROM? 

Where  did  you  come  from,  baby  dear? 
Out  of  the  everywhere  into  here. 

Where  did  you  get  your  eyes  so  blue  ? 
Out  of  the  sky  as  I  came  through. 

What  makes  the  light  in  them  sparkle 

and  spin  ? 
Some  of  the  starry  spikes  left  in. 


Where  did  you  get  that  little  tear  ? 
I  found  it  waiting  when  I  got  here. 

What  makes  your  forehead  so  smooth 

and  high  ? 
A   soft   hand   stroked    it.   as    I    went 

by- 


22 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


What  makes  your  cheek  like  a  warm 

white  rose  ? 
I  saw  something  better  than  any  one 

knows. 

Whence  that  three-cornered  smile  of 

bliss  ? 
Three  angels  gave  me  at  once  a  kiss. 

Where'did  you  get  this  pearly  ear? 
God  spoke,  and  it  came  out  to  hear. 

Where  did  you  get  those  arms  and 

hands  ? 
Love  made  itself  into  hooks  and  bands. 

Feet,  whence  did  you  come,  you  dar- 
ling things? 
From  the  same  box  as  the  cherubs' 
wings. 

How  did  they  all  come  just  to  be  you? 
God  thought  of  me,  and  so  I  grew. 

But  how  did   you  come  to  us,  you 

dear? 
God  thought  of  you,  and   so   I    am 

here. 

George  JIscdonald. 

CHOOSING  A  NAME. 
I  have  got  a  new-born  sister. 
I  was  nigh  the  first  that  kissed  her. 
When  the  nursing-woman  brought  her 
To  papa,  his  infant  daughter, 
Hoav  papa's  dear  eyes  did  glisten  ! 
She  will  shortly  be  to  christen, 
And  papa  has  made  the  offer 
I  shall  have  the  naming  of  her. 

Now,   I   wonder  what   would   please 

her — 
Charlotte,  Julia,  or  Louisa? 
Ann  and  Mary,  they're  too  common ; 
Joan's  too  formal  for  a  woman  ; 


Jane's  a  prettier  name  beside, 
But  we  had  a  Jane  that  died. 
They  would  say,  if  'twas  Rebecca, 
That  she  was  a  little  Quaker; 
Edith's  pretty,  but  that  looks 
Better  in  old  English  books ; 
Ellen's  left  off  long  ago  ; 
Blanche  is  out  of  fashion  now. 
None  that  I  have  named  as  yet 
Are  so  good  as  Margaret. 
Emily  is  neat  and  fine ; 
What  do  you  think  of  Caroline? 
How  I'm  puzzled  and  perplexed 
What  to  choose  or  think  of  next ! 
I  am  in  a  little  fever 
Lest  the  name  that  I  should  give  her 
Should  disgrace  her  or  defame  her : — 
I  will  leave  papa  to  name  her. 

Mary  Lamb. 


WEIGHING  THE  BABY. 

"  How  many  pounds  does  the  baby 
weigh — 
Baby  who  came  but  a  month  ago  ? 
How  many  pounds,  from  the  crowning 
curl 
To  the  rosy  point  of  the  restless  toe? 

Grandfather  ties  the  'kerchief's  knot, 
Tenderly  guides  the  swinging  weight, 

And  carefully  over  his  glasses  peers 
To  read  the  record,  "  Only  eight." 

Softly  the  echo  goes  arolmd  ; 

The  father  laughs  at  the  tiny  girl, 
Tbe  fair  young  mother  sings  the  words. 

While   grandmother    smooths    the 
golden  curl, 

And  stooping  above  the  precious  thing, 
Nestles  a  kiss  within  a  prayer, 

Murmuring  softly,  "  Little  one, 

Grandfather  did  not  weigh  you  fair." 


BABY- BAYS. 


23 


Nobody  weighed  the  baby's  smile, 
Or  the  love  that  came  with  the  help- 
less one ; 

Nobody  weighed  the  threads  of  care 
From  which  a  woman's  life  is  spun. 

No  index  tells  the  mighty  worth 
Of  little  Baby's  quiet  breath, 

A  soft,  unceasing  metronome, 
Patient  and  faithful  unto  death. 

Nobody  weighed  the  baby's  soul, 
For  here  on  earth  no  weight  may  be 

That  could  avail ;  God  only  knows 
Its  value  in  eternity. 

Only  eight  pounds  to  hold  a  soul 
That  seeks  no  angel's  silver  wing, 

But  shines  beneath  this  human  guise, 
Within  so  small  and  frail  a  thing ! 

0  mother,  laugh  your  merry  note ; 

Be  gay  and  glad,  but  don't  forget 
From  baby  eyes  looks  out  a  soul 

That  claims  a  home  in  Eden  yet. 

Ethel  Lynn  Beers. 


BABY'S  COMPLAINT. 

Oh,  mother,  dear  mother,  no  wonder  I 
cry! 

More  wonder  by  far  that  your  baby 
don't  die. 

No  matter  what  ails  me,  no  matter 
who's  here, 

No  matter  how  hungry  the  "  poor  lit- 
tle dear," 

No  matter  if  full  or  all  out  of  breath, 

She  trots  me,  and  trots  me,  and  trots 
me  to  death ! 

I  love  my  dear  nurse,  but  I  dread  that 

great  knee ; 
I  like  all  her  talk,  but,  woe  unto  me ! 


She  can't  be  contented  with  talking 

so  pretty, 
And  washing,  and  dressing,  and  doing 

her  duty  ; 
And  that's  very  well :  I  can  bear  soap 

and  water, 
But,   mother,   she    is   an   unmerciful 

trotter ! 


Pretty  ladies,  I  do  want  to  look  at  your 

faces ; 
Pretty  cap !  pretty  fire !  let  me  see  how 

it  blazes ; 
How  can   I,  my  head  going  bibity- 

bob? 
And  she  trots  me  the  harder  the  harder 

I  sob. 
Oh,  mother,  do  stop  her;  I'm  inwardly 

sore ! 
I  hiccough  and  cry,  and  she  trots  me 

the  more, 
And  talks  about  wind,  when  'tis  she 

makes  me  ache  ; 
Wish  'twould  blow  her  away  for  poor 

Baby's  sake  J 

Thank  goodness,  I'm  still !  Oh  blessed 

be  quiet ! 
I'm  glad  my  dear  mother  is  willing  to 

try  it. 
Of  foolish  old  customs  my  mother's 

no  lover, 
And  the  wisdom  of  this  she  can  never 

discover. 
I'll   rest  me  a  while,  and  just  look 

about, 
And  laugh  up  at  Sally,  who  peeps  in 

and  out, 
And  pick  up  some  notions  as  soon  as 

I  can, 
To  fill  my  small  noddle  before  I'm  a 

man. 


24  THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 

Oh  dear!  is  that  she?     Is  she  coming  I  And,  thumpity  -thump!  with  the  great- 

so  soon  ?  est  delight 

She's  bringing  my  dinner  with  tea-  ;  Her  heel  it  is  going  from  morning  to 

cup  and  spoon  ;  night. 

She'll  hold  me  with  one  hand,  in  t'other  i  All  over  the  house  you  may  hear  it. 

the  cup,  I'm  sure, 

And  -as  fast  as  it's  down  she'll  just    Trot!  trotting!     Just  think  what  I'm 

shake  it  up-:  doomed  to  endure  ! 

L.  J.  H. 


OUR   BABY. 


Did  you  ever  see  our  baby — 

Little  Tot  ? 
With  her  blue  eyes  sparkling  bright, 
Luscious  cheeks  of  rose  and  white, 
Lips  of  glowing  ruby  light? 

Tell  you  what, 
She  is  just  the  sweetest  baby 

Of  the  lot ! 

You  don't  think  so  ?    You  ne'er  saw 
her ! 

If  you  could, 
'Mong  her  pretty  playthings  clattering, 
While  her  little  tongue  was  chattering, 


And  her  nimble  feet  a-pattering, 
Think  you  would 

Say  with  me  she  is  the  sweetest, 
If  you  should. 

Every  grandma's  only  darling, 

I  suppose, 
To  her  eye  (it's  not  a  pity) 
Is  as  bright  and  fresh  and  pretty, 
Is  as  cunning  and  as  witty, 

As  my  rose. 
Heavenly  Father !  spare  them  to  us 

Till  life's  close ! 


BABY-BAYS. 


25 


WWW^SM: 


WINNIE. 

Bless  me !  here's  another  bab}% 

Just  as  cunning  as  can  be, 
Eves  as  blue  as  bonnie  blue-bells, 

Breath  as  sweet  as  rosemary. 
Smile — a  tiny,  flashing  sunbeam, 

Hair  of  purest,  fairest  gold, 
Hands  and  shoulders  full  of  dimples, 

Little  Winnie,  eight  months  old. 

Making  funny,  cooing  speeches 

Nobod^y  can  understand — 
Such  a  quaint  and  pretty  language, 

Only  spoke  in  Baby-Land. 
Should  I  sing  all  day  about  her, 

All  her  sweetness  were  not  told  : 
She's  a  bud,  a  bird,  a  fairy, 

Little  Winnie,  eight  months  old. 


COUNTING  BABY'S  TOES. 
Dear  little  bare  feet, 
Dimpled  and  white, 


In  your  long  night-gown 
Wrapped  for  the  night, 

Come,  let  me  count  all 
Your  queer  little  toes, 

Pink  as  the  heart 
Of  a  shell  or  a  rose. 


One  is  a  lady 

That  sits  in  the  sun ; 
Two  is  a  baby, 

And  three  is  a  nun  ; 
Four  is  a  lily 

With  innocent  breast : 
And  five  is  a  birdie 

Asleep  on  her  nest. 


SELLING  THE  BABY. 

Robbie's  sold  the  baby ! 

Sold  her  out  and  out! 
And  I'll  have  to  tell  you 

How  it  came  about. 


26 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY 


When  on  New  Year's  morning 
Robbie's  opening  eyes 

Spied  the  brand-new  baby, 
What  a  glad  surprise ! 

Constantly  he  watched  her, 
Scarcely  cared  to  play, 

Lest  the  precious  baby 
Should  be  snatched  awa}\ 

Now  he's  gone  and  sold  her ! 

For  to-day  he  ran 
And  proclaimed  to  mamma, 

"  Yes,  I've  found  a  man  ! 

"  Here's  the  man  '11  buy  her ; 
Get  her  ready,  krick !" 
With  an  air  of  business 
Brandishing  a  stick. 

"  Sold  my  baby,  Robbie  ?" 
Mamma  sadly  said ; 
Robbie,  quite  decided, 
Bobbed  his  little  head. 

"  Well,  if  this  man  buys  her, 
What  will  he  give  you  ?" 

"  Oh,  two  nice  big  horses, 
And  five  pennies,  too  ! 

"  What's  the  good  of  babies  ? 
Only  'queal  and  'cream ; 
I  can  go  horse-backin' 
When  I  get  my  team." 

But  when  quiet  night  came, 
Robbie's  prayers  were  said, 

And  he  looked  at  Baby 
In  her  little  bed. 

And  he  said,  when  Baby 

Smiled  in  some  sweet  dream, 


"  She's  wurf  forty  horses, 
'Stead  of  jes'  a  team !" 

Baby's  wee  pink  fingers 
Round  his  own  he  curled 
"  She's  wurf  all  the  horses 
In  dis  whole  big  world." 


TO  CHARLOTTE  PULTENEY. 

Timely  blossom,  infant  fair, 
Fondling  of  a  happy  pair, 
Every  morn  and  every  night 
Their  solicitous  delight ; 
Sleeping,  waking,  still  at  ease, 
Pleasing,  without  skill  to  please  ; 
Little  gossip,  blithe  and  hale, 
Tattling  many  a  broken  tale  ; 
Singing  many  a  tuneless  song, 
Lavish  of  a  heedless  tongue ; 
Simple  maiden,  void  of  art, 
Babbling  out  the  very  heart, 
Yet  abandoned  to  thy  will, 
Yet  imagining  no  ill, 
Yet  too  innocent  to  blush ; 
Like  the  linnet  in  the  bush 
To  the  mother-linnet's  note 
Moduling  her  slender  throat, 
Chirping  forth  thy  petty  joys, 
Wanton  in  the  change  of  toys  ; 
Like  the  linnet  green  in  May 
Flitting  to  each  bloomy  spray  ; 
Wearied  then  and  glad  of  rest, 
Like  the  linnet  in  the  nest ; 
This  thy  present  happy  lot, 
This  in  time  will  be  forgot : 
Other  pleasures,  other  cares, 
Ever  busy  Time  prepares ; 
And  thou  shalt  in  thy  daughter  see 
This  picture,  once,  resembled  thee. 

Ambrose  Philips. 


B.ABT-DAYS. 


27 


BABY-LAND. 

How  many  miles  to  Baby-Land  ? 
Any  one  can  tell ; 
Up  one  night, 
To  your  right — 
Please  to  ring  the  bell. 

What  can  you  see  in  Baby-Land  ? 
Little  folks  in  white, 

Downy  heads, 

Cradle  beds, 
Faces  pure  and  bright. 

What  do  they  do  in  Baby-Land  ? 
Dream  and  wake  and  play. 
Laugh  and  crow, 
Shout  and  grow  ; 
Jolly  times  have  they. 

What  do  they  say  in  Baby-land  ? 
Why,  the  oddest  things  ; 


Might  as  well 
Try  to  tell 
What  a  birdie  sings. 

Who  is  the  queen  of  Baby-Land  ? 
Mother,  kind  and  sweet ; 
And  her  love, 
Born  above, 
Guides  the  little  feet. 

George  Cooper. 


CREEP  BEFORE  YOU  WALK. 

Creep  away,  my  bairnie, 

Creep  before  you  gang  ; 
Listen  with  both  ears 

To  your  old  granny's  sang  ; 
If  you  go  as  far  as  I, 

You  will  think  the  road  lang 
Creep  away,  my  bairnie, 

Creep  before  you  gang. 


28 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


Creep  away,  my  bairnie  ; 

You're  too  young  to  learn 
To  tot  up  and  down  yet, 

My  bonnie  wee  bairn  ; 
Better  creeping,  careful, 

Than  falling  with  a  bang, 
Hurting  all  your  wee  brow  ; 

Creep  before  you  gang, 

The  little  birdie  falls 

When  it  tries  too  soon  to  fly ; 
Folks  are  sure  to  tumble 

When  they  climb  too  high. 
Those  who  do  not  walk  aright 

Are  sure  to  come  to  wrang ; 
Creep  away,  my  bairnie, 

Creep  before  you  gang. 

James  Ballantyne. 

A  SLEEPING  CHILD. 

Lips,  lips,  open ! 

Up  comes  a  little  bird  that  lives  inside, 
LTp  comes  a  little  bird,  and  peeps,  and 
out  he  flies. 

All  the  day  he  sits  inside,  and  some- 
times he  sings ; 
Up  he  comes,  and  out  he  goes  at  night 
to  spread  his  wings. 

Little   bird,  little  bird,  whither  will 


you  go 


Round  about  the  world  while  nobody 
can  know. 

Little  bird,  little  bird,  whither  do  you 
flee? 

Far  away  round  the  world  while  no- 
body can  see. 

Little  bird,  little  bird,  how  long  will 

you  roam  ? 
All  round  the  world,  and  around  again 

home. 


Round   the    round    world,  and   back 

through  the  air. 
When  the  morning  comes,  the  little 

bird  is  there. 

Back  comes  the  little  bird,  and  looks, 

and  in  he  flies ; 
Up  wakes  the   little  boy,  and  opens 

both  his  eyes. 

Sleep,   sleep,   little   boy,   little   bird's 

away ; 
Little  bird  will  come  again,  by  the 

peep  of  day. 

Sleep,  sleep,  little  boy,  little  bird  must 

go 
Round  about  the  world,  while  nobody 

can  know. 

Sleep,'  sleep   sound,  little    bird   goes 

round — 

Round    and    round  he   goes, — sleep, 

sleep  sound ! 

Arthur  Hugh  Clouuh. 


LITTLE  BIRDIE. 

What  does  little  birdie  say, 
In  her  nest  at  peep  of  day  ? 
"  Let  me  fly,"  says  little  birdie — 

u  Mother,  let  me  fly  away." 
"  Birdie,  rest  a  little  longer, 
Till  the  little  wings  are  stronger." 
So  she  rests  a  little  longer, 
Then  she  flies  away. 

What  does  little  baby  say 
In  her  bed  at  peep  of  day  ? 
Baby  says,  like  little  birdie, 

"  Let  me  rise  and  fly  away." 
"  Baby,  sleep  a  little  longer, 
Till  the  little  limbs  are  stronger. 
If  she  sleeps  a  little  longer, 

Baby,  too,  shall  fly  away.", 

Alfred  Tennyson. 


BABY-DAYS. 


29 


A  YOUNG  GIRL  TO  HER  LITTLE  BROTHER. 


My  pretty  baby  brother 

Is  six  months  old  to-day, 
And,  though  he  cannot  speak, 

He  knows  whate'er  I  say. 
Whenever  I  come  near 

He  crows  for  very  joy, 
And  dearly  do  I  love  him. 

The  darling  baby-boy  ! 

My  brother's  cheek  is  blooming, 
And  his  bright  laughing  eves 


Are  like  the  pure  spring  violets, 
Or  the  summer  cloudless  skies. 

His  mouth  is  like  a  rosebud, 
So  delicate  and  red, 

And  his  hair  is  soft  as  silk, 
And  curls  all  round  his  head. 

When  he  laughs,  upon  his  face 

80  many  dimples  play 
They  seem  like  little  sunbeams 

Which  o'er  his  features  stray. 


30 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


I  am  sure  we  all  must  love  him, 

He  is  so  full  of  glee : 
Just  like  a  ray  of  sunshine 
,      My  brother  is  to  me. 

When  in  his  pretty  cradle 

He  lies  in  quiet  sleep, 
'Tis  joy  to  be  beside  him, 

A  faithful  Avatch  to  keep ; 
And  when  his  sleep  is  over, 

I  love  to  see  him  lie 
And  lift  the  silken  fringes 

That  veil  his  sweet  blue  eye. 

Oh,  my  dear,  dear  baby  brother, 

Our  darling  and  our  pet ! 
The  very  sweetest  plaything 

I  ever  have  had  yet. 
The  pretty  little  creature, 

He  grows  so  every  day 
That  when  the  summer  comes 

In  the  garden  he  will  play. 

How  cunning  he  will  look 

Among  the  grass  and  flowers  ! 
No  blossom  is  so  fair 

As  this  precious  one  of  ours. 
Every  night  before  I  sleep, 

When  I  kneel  to  say  my  prayer, 
I  ask  my  heavenly  Father 

Of  my  brother  to  take  care. 

Aunt  Mary. 

THE  BABIE. 

Nae  shoon  to  hide  her  tiny  taes, 

Nae  stockin'  on  her  feet ; 
Her  supple  ankles  white  as  snaw, 

Or  early  blossoms  sweet. 

Her  simple  dress  o'  sprinkled  pink, 
Her  double,  dimplit  chin, 

Her  puckered  lips  and  baumy  mou' 
With  na  ane  tooth  within. 

Her  een  sae  like  her  mither's  een, 
Twa  gentle,  liquid  things ; 


Her  face  is  like  an  angel's  face : 
We're  glad  she  has  nae  wings. 

She  is  the  buddin'  o'  our  luve, 

A  giftie  God  gied  us  : 
We  maun  na  luve  the  gift  owre  weel ; 

'Twad  be  nae  blessin'  thus. 

We  still  maun  lo'e  the  Giver  mair, 
An'  see  Him  in  the  given  ; 

An'  sae  she'll  lead  us  up  to  Him, 
Our  babie  straight  frae  heaven. 

J.  E.  Raskin. 

CRADLE  SONG. 

[From    the    German.] 

Sleep,  baby  sleep ! 
Thy  father's  watching  the  sheep, 
Thy  mother's  shaking  the  dreamland 

tree, 
And  dowivdrOps  a  little  dream  for  thee. 

Sleep,  baby,  sleep ! 

Sleep,  baby,  sleep ! 
The  large  stars  are  the  sheep, 
The  little  stars  are  the  lambs,  I  guess, 
The  bright  moon  is  the  shepherdess. 

Sleep,  baby,  sleep ! 

Sleep,  baby,  sleep ! 
And  cry  not  like  a  sheep, 
Else  the  sheep-dog  will  bark  and  whine, 
And  bite  this  naughty  child  of  mine. 

Sleep,  baby,  sleep ! 

Sleep,  baby,  sleep ! 
Thy  Saviour  loves  His  sheep  ; 
He  is  the  Lamb  of  God  on  high 
Who  for  our  sakes  came  down  to  die. 

Sleep,  baby,  sleep ! 

Sleep,  baby,  sleep ! 
Away  to  tend  the  sheep, 
Away,  thou  sheep-dog  fierce  and  wild. 
And  do  not  harm  my  sleeping  child  ! 

Sleep,  baby,  sleep ! 

Elizabeth  Pkkntiss. 


BABY-DATS. 


31 


BABY  PAUL. 

Up  in  the  early  morning, 

Just  at  the  peep  of  day, 
Driving  the  sleep  from  my  eyelids. 

Pulling  the  quilts  away ; 
Pinching  my  cheeks  and  my  forehead 

With  his  white  fingers  small : 
This  is  my  bright-eyed  darling, 

This  is  my  baby  Paul. 

Down  on  the  floor  in  the  parlor, 

Creeping  with  laugh  and  shout, 
Or  out  in  the  kitchen  and  pantry, 

Tossing  the  things  about ; 
Rattling  the  pans  and  the  kettles, 

Scratching  the  table  and  wall : 
This  is  my  roguish  darling, 

This  is  my  baby  Paul. 

Riding  on  papa's  shoulder, 

Trotting  on  grandpa's  knee, 
Pulling  his  hair  and  whiskers, 

Laughing  in  wildest  glee ; 
Reaching  for  grandma's  knitting, 

Snatching  her  thimble  and  ball ; 
This  is  our  household  idol, 

This  is  our  babv  Paul. 


Playing  bo-peep  with  his  brother. 

Kissing  the  little  girls, 
Roaming  with  aunt  and  uncles. 

Clutching  his  sister's  curls  ; 
Teasing  old  puss  from  her  slumbers. 

Pattering  o'er  porch  and  hall : 
This  is  our  bonny  wee  darling, 

This  is  our  baby  Paul. 

Nestling  up  close  to  my  bosom. 

Laying  his  cheek  to  mine, 
Covering  my  mouth  with  his  kisses 

Sweeter  than  golden  wine, 
Flinging  his  white  arms  about  me, 

Soft  as  the  snow-flakes  fail : 
This  is  my  cherished  darling, 

This  is  my  baby  Paul. 

Dearer,  a  thousand  times  dearer, 

The  wealth  in  my  darling  I  hoid, 
Than  all  the  earth's  glittering  treasure. 

Its  glory,  and  honors,  and  gold  ; 
If  these  at  my  feet  were  now  lying. 

I'd  gladly  renounce  them  all 
For  the  sake  of  my  bright-eyed  dar- 
ling, 

My  dear  little  baby  Paul. 

Mrs.  Bishop  Thompson. 


LULLABY. 

Golden  slumbers  kiss  your  eyes, 
Smiles  awake  you  when  you  rise. 
Sleep,  pretty  wantons  ;  do  not  c/y. 
And  I  will  sing  a  lullaby : 
Rock  them,  rock  them,  lullaby. 

Care  is  heavy,  therefore  sleep  you  ; 
You  are  care,  and  care  must  keep  you. 
Sleep,  pretty  wantons  ;  do  not  cry. 
And  I  will  sing  a  lullaby : 
Rock  them,  rock  them,  lullaby. 

Thomas  Dekker. 


32 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY 


"Who  bears  upon  his  baby  brow  the  round 
And  top  of  sovereifv*  -  " 


Look   at   me   with   thy   large   brown 
eyes, 

Philip,  my  king! 
Round  whom  the  enshadowing  purple 

lies 
Of  babyhood's  royal  dignities  : 
Lay  on  my  neck  thy  tiny  hand, 

With  Love's  invisible  sceptre  laden ; 
I  am  thine  Esther  to  command 

Till  thou  shalt  find  a  queen-hand- 
maiden, 

Philip,  my  king ! 


PHILIP,  MY  KING. 

Up  from  thy  sweet  mouth  up  to  thy 
brow, 

Philip,  my  king  ! 
The  spirit  that  there  lies  sleeping  now 
May  rise  like  a  giant,  and  make  men 

bow 
As  to  one  heaven-chosen  amongst  his 
peers. 
My  Saul,  than  thy  brethren  taller 
and  fairer 
Let  me  behold  thee  in  future  years  ! 
Yet  thy  head  needeth  a  circlet  rarer, 
Philip,  my  king — 


Oh,  the  day  when  thou  goest  a-wooing, 

Philip,  my  king  ! 
When  those  beautiful  lips  'gin  suing, 
And,  some  gentle  heart's  bars  undo- 
ing, 
Thou   dost   enter,  love-crowned,   and 

there 
fittest,  love  glorified! — Rule  kindly, 
Tenderly,  over  thy  kingdom  fair  ; 
For  v/e  that  love,  ah !    we  love  so 
blindly. 

Philip,  my  king! 


A  wreath  not  of  gold,  but  palm.     One 
day, 

Philip,  my  king ! 
Thou,  too,  must  tread,  as  we  trod,  a  way 
Thorny,  and  cruel,  and  cold,  and  gray  ; 
Rebels  within  thee  and  foes  without 
Will   snatch    at   thy    crown.      But 
march  on,  glorious, 
Martyr,  yet  monarch !  till  angels  shout. 
As  thou   sitt'st  at  the  feet  of  God 
victorious, 

"  Philip,  the  king !" 

Dinah  Maria  Mulock  Craik. 


BABY-DAYS. 


33 


"SWEET  AND  LOW." 

Sweet  and  low,  sweet  and  low, 

Wind  of  the  western  sea, 
Low,  low,  breathe  and  blow, 
Wind  of  the  western  sea ! 
Over  the  rolling  waters  go, 
Come  from  the   dying  moon,   and 
blow, 
Blow  him  again  to  me, 
While  my  little  one,  while  my  pretty 
one,  sleeps. 

Sleep  and  rest,  sleep  and  rest, 

Father  will  come  to  thee  soon ; 
Rest,  rest,  on  mother's  breast, 

Father  will  come  to  thee  soon ; 
Father  will  come  to  his  babe  in  the 

nest, 
Silver  sails  all  out  of  the  west 
Under  the  silver  moon : 
Sleep,  my  little  one,  sleep,  my  pretty 
one,  sleep. 

Alfred  Tennyson. 


LULLABY. 

A  song  for  the  baby,  sweet  little  Bo- 
peep  ; 

Come,  wee  Willie  Winkie,  and  sing  her 
to  sleep. 

Come  toss  her  high  up,  and  trot  her 

low  down; 
This  is  the  road  to  Brinklepeeptown. 

Come,  press  down  her  eyelids,  and 
sing  in  her  ear 

The  wonderful  songs  that  in  Dream- 
land we  hear, 

The  chime  of  the  waters,  the  drone  of 

the  bees, 
The  tales  that  the  blossoms  are  telling 

the  breeze. 

For,  spite  of  her  crowing  and  cooing, 

I  see 
The  baby  is  sleepy  as  sleepy  can  be. 


34 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


Down  flutter  the  eyelids — dear  little 

Bopeep, 
Now  whist !  Willie  Winkie,  she's  gone 

fast  asleep. 

Shirley  Dare. 

CRADLE  SONG. 

'Tis  night  on  the  mountain, 

'Tis  night  on  the  sea, 
Mild  dewdrops  are  kissing 

The  bloom-covered  lea ; 
Like  plumes  gently  waving, 

The  soft  zephyrs  creep ; 
The  birds  are  all  dreaming, 

Then  sleep,  darling,  sleep. 

'Tis  night  on  the  mountain, 

'Tis  night  on  the  sea, 
Away  in  the  distance 

The  stars  twinkle  free ; 
O'er  all  of  His  creatures 

His  watch  He  will  keep 
Who  guardeth  the  sparrows — 

Then  sleep,  darling,  sleep. 

Mary  M.  Bowen. 


POLLY  PANSY. 

Pretty  Polly  Pansy 

Hasn't  any  hair — 
Just  a  ruff  of  gold  down 

Fit  for  ducks  to  wear ; 
Merry,  twinkling  blue  eyes, 

Noselet  underneath, 
And  a  pair  of  plump  lips 

Innocent  of  teeth. 

Either  side  each  soft  cheek 

A  jolly  little  ear, 
Painted  like  a  conch-shell : 

Isn't  she  a  dear  ? 


Twice  five  fingers, 

Ten  tiny  toes  ; 
Polly's  always  counting, 

So  of  course  she  knows. 

If  you  take  a  tea-cup, 

Polly  wants  to  drink ; 
If  you  write  a  letter, 

What  delicious  ink ! 
Helps  you  read  your  paper, 

News  of  half  the  town ; 
Holds  it  just  as  you  do, 

Only  upside  down ! 

Polly,  when  she's  sleepy, 

"Means  to  rub  her  eyes — 
Thumps  her  nose  so  blindly 

Ten  to  one  she  cries  ! 
Niddle-noddle  numpkin, 

Pretty  lids  shut  fast, 
Ring  the  bells  and  fire  the  guns, 

Polly's  off  at  last ! 

Pop  her  in  her  cradle, 

Draw  the  curtains  round  ; 
Fists  are  good  for  sucking — 

Don't  we  know  the  sound  ? 
Oh,  my  Polly  Pansy, 

Can  it,  can  it  be, 
That  we  ugly  old  folks 

Once  resembled  thee? 


DON'T  WAKE  THE  BABY. 

Baby  sleeps,  so  we  must  tread 
Softly  round  her  little  bed, 
And  be  careful  that  our  toys 
Do  not  fall  and  make  a  noise. 

Play  and  talk,  but  whisper  low  ; 
Mother  wants  to  work,  we  know, 
That  when  father  comes  to  tea 
All  may  neat  and  cheerful  be. 


PLAY-DAYS 


Play- Days. 


,  MY  LITTLE  SISTER. 

I  have  a  little  sister, 

She's  only  two  years  old : 
But  she's  a  little  darling, 

And  worth  her  weight  in  gold. 

She  often  runs  to  kiss  me 
When  I'm  at  work  or  play, 

Twining  her  arms  about  me 
In  such  a  pretty  way ; 

And  then  she'll  say  so  sweetly, 

In  innocence  and  joy, 
"  Tell  me  story,  sister  dear, 

About  the  little  boy." 

Sometimes  when  I  am  knitting 
She'll  pull  my  needles  out, 

And  then  she'll  skip  and  dance  around 
With  such  a  merry  shout. 


It  makes  me  laugh  to  see  her, 
Though  I'm  not  very  glad 

To  have  her  take  my  needles  out. 
And  make  my  work  so  bad  ; 

But  then  if  I  would  have  her 
To  see  what  she  has  done, 

I  must  be  very  gentle 

While  tellina;  her  the  wrong. 


MR.  NOBODY. 

I  know  a  funny  little  man, 

As  quiet  as  a  mouse, 
Who  does  the  mischief  that  is  done 

In  everybody's  house. 
There's  no  one  ever  sees  his  face, 

And  yet  we  all  agree 
That  every  plate  we  break  was  cracked 
By  Mr.  Nobody. 

'Tis  he  who  always  tears  our  books, 

Who  leaves  the  door  ajar ; 
He  pulls  the  buttons  from  our  skirts, 

And  scatters  pins  afar. 
That    squeaking    door    will     always 
squeak, 
For,  prithee,  don't  you  see 
We  leave  the  oiling  to  be  done 
By  Mr.  Nobody  ? 

He  puts  damp  wood  upon  the  fire, 
That  kettles  cannot  boil ; 

37 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


His  are  the  feet  that  bring  in  mud, 

And  all  the  carpets  soil. 
The  papers  always  are  mislaid ; 

Who  had  them  last  but  he? 
There's  no  one  tosses  them  about 
But  Mr.  Nobody. 

The  finger-marks  upon  the  doors 

By  none  of  us  are  made ; 
We  never  leave  the  blinds  unclosed, 

To  let  the  curtains  fade. 
The  ink  we  never  sj>ill ;  the  boots 

That  lying  round  you  see 
Are  not  our  boots  ;  they  all  belong 
To  Mr.  Nobody. 

Riverside  Magazine. 

THE  LITTLE  PET. 

I'm  just  a  wee  bit  lassie,  with  a  lassie's 

winsome  ways, 
And  worth  my  solid  weight  in  gold, 

my  uncle  Johnny  says ; 
My  curly  little  noddle  holds  a  thim- 
bleful of  sense ; 
Not  quite  as  much  as  Solomon's — but 

his  was  so  immense ! 
I  know  that  sugar-plums  are  sweet,  that 

"  No,  my  love,"  means  "Yes ;" 
That  when  I'm  big  I'll  always  wear  my 

pretty  Sunday  dress. 
And   I   can  count — 'leven,  six,  nine, 

five — and  say  my  ABC. 
Now  have   you   any  taffy,  dear,  that 

you  could  give  to  me? 

I'm  Bridget's  "  torment  of  her  life,  that 

makes  her  brain  run  wild," 
And  mamma's  "darling  little  elf,"  and 

grandpa's  "  blessed  child ;" 
And  Uncle  Johnny's  "Touch  me  not," 

and  papa's  "  'Gyptian  queen:" 
I  make  them  stand   about,  you  see ; 

that  must  be  what  they  mean. 


For  opening  hard  old,  stony  hearts,  I 

have  two  precious  keys, 
And  one  is,  "Oh,  I  thank  you,  sir;" 

the  other,  "  If  you  please ;" 
And  if  these  do  not  answer,  I  know 

another  trick : 
I   squeeze  two   little  tear-drops   out ; 

that  melts  them  pretty  quick. 

I'm  sweet  as  any  lily-bed,  and  sweeter 

too,  I  s'pose, 
But  that's  no  reason  why  I  shouldn't 

rumple  up  my  clothes. 
Oh,  would  I  be  an  angel,  if  an  angel 

never  cries, 
Nor  soils  its  pretty  pinafore  a-making 

nice  dirt  pies  ? 
I'm  but  a  little  lassie,  with  a  thimble- 
ful of  sense, 
And  as  to  being  very  wise,  I'd   best 

make  no  pretence ; 
But  when  I  am  a  woman  grown,  now 

don't  you  think  I'll  do, 
If  only  just  about  as   good   as  dear 

mamma  and  you? 

Little  Corporal. 


PLAY-DAYS. 


39 


ANNIE. 

I've  a  sweet  little  pet ;  she  is  up  with 
the  lark. 

And  at  eve  she's  asleep  when  the  val- 
leys are  dark, 

And  she  chatters  and  dances  the 
blessed  day  long, 

Now  laughing  in  gladness,  now  sing- 
ing a  song. 

She  never  is  silent ;  the  whole  sum- 
mer day 

She  is  off  on  the  green  with  the  blos- 
soms at  play, 

Now  seeking  a  buttercup,  plucking  a 
rose, 

Or  laughing  aloud  at  the  thistle  she 
blows. 


She    never    is    still ;    now    at    some 

merry  elf 
You'll   smile  as   you    watch   her,   in 

spite  of  yourself; 


You  may  chicle  her  in  vain,  for  those 

eyes,  full  of  fun, 
Are  smiling  in  mirth  at  the  mischiei 

she's  done  ; 
And    whatever    you    do,   that    same 

thing,  without  doubt,    * 
Must  the  mischievous  Annie  be  busied 

about. 
She's  as  brown  as  a  nut,  but  a  beauty 

to  me, 
And  there's  nothing  her  keen   little 

eyes  cannot  see. 


She  dances  and  sings,  and  has  many 
sweet  airs, 

And  to  infant  accomplishments  add- 
ing her  prayers. 

I  have  told  everything  that  the  darl- 
ing can  do, 

For  'twas  only  last  summer  her  years 
numbered  two. 

She's  the  picture  of  health,  and  a 
Southern-born  thing, 

Just  as  ready  to  weep  as  she's  ready 
to  sing ; 

And  I  fain  would  be  foe  to  lip  that 
hath  smiled 

At  this  wee  bit  of  song  of  the  dear 
little  child. 


MY  LOVE,  ANNIE. 

Soft  of  voice  and  light  of  hand 
As  the  fairest  in  the  land, — 
"Who  can  rightly  understand 
My  Love,  Annie  ? 

Simple  in  her  thoughts  and  ways, 
True  in  every  word  she  says, — 
^Yho  shall  even  dare  to  praise 
My  Love,  Annie? 


40 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF    POETRY. 


'Midst  a  naughty  world,  and  rude, 
Never  in  ungentle  mood, 
Never  tired  of  being  good — 
My  Love,  Annie. 

Hundreds  of  the  wise  and  great 
Might  o'erlook  her  meek  estate, 
But  on  her  good  angels  wait — 
My  Love,  Annie. 

Many  or  few  the  loves  that  may 
Shine  upon  her  silent  way — 
God  will  love  her  night  and  day, 
My  Love,  Annie. 

Dinah  Maria  Mulock  Craik. 


GOLDEN-TRESSED  ADELAIDE. 
A  Song  for  a  Child. 

Sing,  I  pray,  a  little  song, 

Mother  dear! 
Neither  sad  nor  very  long : 
It  is  for  a  little  maid, 
Golden-tressed  Adelaide ! 
Therefore  let  it  suit  a  merry,  merry  ear, 
Mother  dear. 


Let  it  be  a  merry  strain, 

Mother  dear ! 
Shunning  e'en  the  thought  of  pain : 
For  our  gentle  child  will  weep 
If  the  theme  be  dark  and  deep ; 
And  we  will  not  draw  a  single,  single 
tear, 

Mother  dear! 

Childhood  should  be  all  divine, 

Mother  dear ! 
And  like  an  endless  summer  shine ; 
Gay  as  Edward's  shouts  and  cries, 
Bright  as  Agnes'  azure  eyes : 
Therefore  bid  thy  song  be  merry  : — 
dost  thou  hear. 

Mother  dear  ? 

Bryan  Waller  Procter 
(Barry  Cornwall). 


FATHER  AT  PLAY. 

Such  fun  as  we  had  one  rainy 

day, 
When   father  was   home   and 

helped  us  play, 

And  made  a  ship  and  hoisted 
sail, 

And  crossed  the  sea  in  a  fear- 
ful gale  ! 

But  we  hadn't  sail'd  into  Lon- 
don town, 
When  captain,  and  crew,  and  vessel 
went  down — 

Down,  down  in  a  jolly  wreck, 
With   the   captain  rolling   under'  the 
deck. 

But  he  broke  out  again  with  a  lion's 

roar, 
And  we  on  two  legs,  he  on  four, 


PLAY-DAYS. 


41 


Ran   out   of  the  parlor,  and   up  the 

stair, 
And    frightened     mamma     and    the 

baby  there. 

So  mamma  said  she  would  be  p'lice- 

man  now, 
And   tried   to    'rest   us.      She    didn't 

know  how  ! 

Then  the  lion  laughed,  and  forgot  to 

roar, 
Till  we  chased  him  out  of  the  nursery 

door ; 

And  then  he  turned  to  a  pony  gay, 
And  carried  us  all  on  his  back  away. 

Whippity,  lickity,  kickity,  ho  ! 

If  we  hadn't  fun,  then  I  don't  know ! 

Till  we  tumbled  off,  and  he  cantered 

on, 
Never  stopping  to  see  if  his  load  wTas 

gone. 

And  I  couldn't  tell  any  more  than  he 
Which   was   Charlie   and  which  was 
me, 

Or  which  was   Towser,  for,  all   in   a 

mix, 
You'd  think  three  people  had  turird 

to  six, 

Till   Towser's   tail  had   caught   in   a 

door ; 
He   wouldn't    hurrah    with    us    any 

more  ; 

And   mamma  came   out  the  rumpus 

to  quiet, 
And  told  us  a  story  to  break  up  the 

riot. 

Hannah  Moke  Johnson. 


A  LITTLE  GIRL'S  LETTER. 

Dear  Grandma,  I  will  try  to  write 

A  very  little  letter  : 
If  I  don't  spell  the  words  all  right, 

Why,  next  time  I'll  do  better. 

My  little  rabbit  is  alive, 

And  likes  his  milk  and  clover  ; 
He  likes  to  see  me  very  much, 

But  is  afraid  of  Rover. 

I've  got  a  dove,  as  white  as  snow, 
I  call  her  "  Polly  Feather  ;" 

She  flies  and  hops  about  the  yard, 
In  every  kind  of  weather. 

I  think  she  likes  to  see  it  rain, 
For  then  she  smooths  her  jacket ; 

And  seems  to  be  so  proud  and  vain, 
The  turkeys  make  a  racket. 

The  hens  are  picking  off  the  grass, 
And  singing  very  loudly  ; 

While  our  old  peacock  struts  about 
And  shows  his  colors  proudly. 

I  guess  I'll  close  my  letter  now, 
I've  nothing  more  to  tell ; 

Please  answer  soon,  and  come  to  see 
Your  loving  little  Nell ! 

Wisconsin  Farmer. 


POLLY'S  DOLLY. 

Shining  eyes,  very  blue, 

Opened  very  wide ; 
Yellow  curls,  very  stiff, 

Hanging  side  by  side ; 
Chubby  cheeks,  very  pink  ; 

Lips  red  as  holly  ; 
No  ears,  and  only  thumbs — 

That's  Polly's  dolly ! 

Merry  eyes,  very  round ; 
Hair  crimped  and  long ; 


42 


THE    CHILDREN'S    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 


Two  little  cherry  lips, 

Sending  forth  a  song  ; 
Very  plump,  and  rather  short ; 

Grand  ways  to  Dolly  ; 
Fond  of  games,  fond  of  fun — 

That's  Dolly's  Polly. 

Dolly  !  I  make  all  your  clothes- 
Don 't  I  make  them  neatly  ? 

And  to  you  I  sing  my  song — 
Don't  I  sing  it  sweetly  ? 

I  gave  you  a  pinafore, 
With  many  ribbons  gay  ; 

And  I  sing  and  talk  to  you, 
Till  darkness  hides  the  day. 


"  Yet  you  never  thank  me,  Doll — - 

You  never  say  a  word  ; 
You  are  not  half  as  grateful,  Doll, 

As  pussy-cat  or  bird. 
Pussy  purrs,  and  birdie  sings, 

But  you  are  like  a  mouse — 
Never  even  thanked  me,  Doll, 

For  pretty  bran-new  house  ! 


'*  To  be  sure,  you  never  cry 

When  I  bump  your  head  ; 
And  once  you  out  of  window  fell, 

Yet  not  a  word  you  said. 
And  if  I  e'er  forget  you,  Doll, 

And  leave  you  in  your  place 
All  the  day,  yet  not  a  frown 

Is  seen  upon  your  face. 

"  You  shall  teach  me,  Dolly  dear, 
Not  to  cry  or  pout, 
If  any  one  is  cross  to  me, 

And  no  one  takes  me  out. 
I  wish  that  I  could  teach  you,  Doil. 

All  prettily  to  say 
'Thank  you !'  when  I  sing  to  you, 
And  give  you  ribbons  gay." 

THE  LOST  DOLL. 

I  once  had  a  sweet  little  doll,  dears, 

The  prettiest  doll  in  the  world  ; 
Her  cheeks  were  so  red  and  so  white, 
dears, 
And   her  hair  was   so   charmingly 
curled. 
But  I  lost  my  poor  little  doll,  dears, 
As  I  played  in  the  heath  one  day  ; 
And  I  cried  for  her  more  than  a  week, 
dears, 
But  I  never  could  find  where  she  lay. 

I  found  my  poor  little  doll,  dears, 

As  I  played  in  the  heath  one  day  ; 
Folks    say   she   is   terribly   changed, 
dears, 
For  her  paint  is  all  washed  away. 
And    her   arm    trodden    off    by   the 
cows,  dears, 
And    her   hair    not    the    least   bit 
curled  ; 
Yet  for  old  sakes'  sake  she  is  still,  dears, 
The  prettiest  doll  in  the  world. 

Chart-es  Kingsley. 


PLAY-DAYS. 


43 


DOCTOR'S  VISIT. 

LITTLE  MAMMA,  WITH  A  SICK  DOLL. 

Come  and  see  my  baby  dear  ; 
Doctor,  she  is  ill,  I  fear. 
Yesterday,  do  what  I  would, 
She  would  touch  no  kind  of  food, 
And  she  tosses,  moans,  and  cries. 
Doctor,  what  do  you  advise  ? 

DOCTOR. 

Hum !  ha !  Good  madam,  tell  me,  pray, 
What  have  you  offered  her  to-day? 
Ah,  yes,  I  see — a  piece  of  cake  ; 
The  worst  thing  you  could  make  her 

take. 
Just  let  me  taste.     Yes,  yes,  I  fear 
Too  many  plums  and  currants  here ; 
But  stop  !  I  will  just  taste  again, 
So  as  to  make  the  matter  plain. 


LITTLE    MAMMA. 


But,  doctor,  pray  excuse  me ;  oh, 
You've  eaten  all  my  cake  up  now  I 
I  thank  you  kindly  for  your  care, 
But  do  you  think  'twas  hardly  fair? 


DOCTOR. 

Oh,  dear  me  !     Did  I  eat  the  cake  ? 
"Well,  it  was  for  dear  Baby's  sake. 
But  keep  her  in  her  bed,  well  warm, 
And  you  will  see  she'll  take  no  harm. 
At  night  and  morning  use,  once  more. 
Her  drink  and  powder  as  before  ; 
And  she  must  not  be  over-fed, 
But  may  just  have  a  piece  of  bread. 
To-morrow,  then.  I  dare  to  say, 
She'll  be  quite  right.  Good-day !  good- 
day  ! 


41 


THE    CHILDREN'S  BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


THE  NEW  DOLL. 

Dear  doll,  how  I  love  you ! 

Your  form  is  so  fair, 
Your  eyes  are  like  diamonds, 

And  curly  your  hair ; 
I  never  get  weary 

Of  seeing  your  face  ; 
And  3^011  are  so  lovely, 

I  call  you  "  Miss  Grace." 

My  kind  mamma  bought  you 

One  day  at  a  fair, 
All  dressed  out  so  gayly, 

And  wrapped  up  with  care. 
She  gave  me  a  workbox, 

Cloth,  scissors,  and  thread, 


To  make  tiny  sheets 
For  your  neat  little  bed. 

Here's  silk  for  your  dresses, 

And  ribbons  to  trim ; 
I'll  make  you  as  fine  as 

My  wax  "  Dolly  Prim." 
My  mamma  loves  order  ■ 

So,  Gracie,  you  see 
If  I  don't  keep  my  workbox 

As  neat  as  can  be. 

No  silk  shall  be  ravelled, 
No  spool  shall  be  lost ; 

I'll  obey  her,  no  matter 
What  labor  it  cost ; 


PLAY-DAYS. 


45 


I'll  take  tiny  stitches, 

And  hem  every  skirt, 
Nor  scollop  with  scissors 

Like  wild  Kitty  Flirt. 

And  thus  I'll  be  learning 

To  make  my  own  clothes, 
And  help  mamma  sew 

For  our  sweet  baby  Rose ; 
For,  mind  you,  Miss  Gracie, 

I  sha'n't  always  play 
With  dolls ;  I  hope  I'll  be 

A  tall  woman  some  day. 

Then  I  hope  to  make  garments 

Much  larger  than  these — 
Warm  hoods,  gowns,  and  cloaks, 

That  the  poor  may  not  freeze ; 
And  then,  if  I'm  asked  where 

I  got  all  my  skill, 
I'll  tell  them  'twas  making 

Your  dress,  cloak,  and  frill. 


THE  DOLL-BABY  SHOW. 

Our  doll-baby  show,  it  was  something 
quite  grand; 

You  saw  there  the  loveliest  dolls  in  the 
land. 

Each  girl  brought  her  own,  in  its  pret- 
tiest dress ; 

Three  pins  bought  a  ticket,  and  not  a 
pin  less. 

For  the  doll  that  was  choicest  we  of- 
fered a  prize ; 

There  were  wee  mites  of  dollies,  and 
some  of  great  size ; 

Some  came  in  rich  purple,  some  lilac, 
some  white, 

With  ribbons  and  laces — a  wonderful 
sight ! 


Now,  there  was  one  dolly  so  tall  and 

so  proud 
She  put  all  the  others  quite  under  a 

cloud ; 
But  one  of  us  hinted,  in  so  many  words, 
That  sometimes  fine  feathers  do  not 

make  fine  birds. 

We  sat  in  a  row,  with  our  dolls  in  our 

laps ; 
The  dolls  behaved  sweetly,  and  met 

no  mishaps. 
No  boys  were  admitted — for  boys  will 

make  fun ; 
Now  which  do  you  think  was  the  dolly 

that  won  ? 

Soon  all  was  commotion  to  hear  who 

would  get 
The  prize ;  for  the  dollies'  committee 

had  met; 
We  were  the  committee ;  and  which 

do  you  think 
Was  the  doll  we  decided  on,  all  in  a 

wink  ? 

Why,  each  of  us  said  that  our  own 
was  the  best, 

The  finest,  the  sweetest,  the  prettiest 
drest ; 

So  we  all  got  the  prize.  We'll  invite 
you  to  go 

The  next  time  we  girls  have  our  doll- 
baby  show. 

George  Cooper. 


THE  DEAD  DOLL. 

You  needn't  be  trying  to  comfort  me. 

I  tell  you  my  dolly  is  dead  ! 
There's  no  use  saying  she  isn't,  with  a 

crack  like  that  in  her  head. 


46 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


It's  just  like  you  said  it  wouldn't  hurt 

much  to  have  my  tooth  out  that 

day; 
And  then,  when  the  man  'most  pulled 

my  head  off',  you  hadn't  a  word 

to  say. 

And  I  guess  you  must  think  I'm  a 

baby,   when    you    say   you    can 

mend  it  with  glue ! 
As  if  I  didn't  know  better  than  that ! 

Why,  just  suppose  it  was  you ! 
You  might  make  her  look  all  mended 

— but  what  do  I  care  for  looks  ? 
Why,  glue's  for  chairs,  and  tables,  and 

toys,  and  the  backs  of  books  ! 

My  dolly !   my  own  little   daughter ! 

Oh,  but  it's  the  awfullest  crack ! 
It  just  makes  me  sick  to  think  of  the 

sound  when  her  poor  head  went 

whack ! 
Against  that  horrible  brass  thing  that 

holds  up  the  little  shelf. — 
Now,  Nursey,  what  makes  you  remind 

me  ?    I  know  that  I  did  it  myself. 

I  think  you  must  be  crazy — you'll  get 

her  another  head ! 
What  good  would  forty  heads  do  her  ? 

I  tell  you  my  dolly  is  dead  ! 
And  to  think  I  hadn't  quite  finished 

her  elegant  new  spring  hat ! 
And  I  took  a  sweet  ribbon  of  hers  last 

night  to  tie  on  that  horrid  cat ! 


When  my  mamma  gave  me  that  rib- 
bon— I  was   playing  out  in   the 
yard- 
She    said    to     me    most    expressly, 
"  Here's  a  ribbon  for  Hildegarde." 


And  I  went  and  put  it  on  Tabby,  and 
Hildegarde  saw  me  do  it ; 

But  I  said  to  myself,  "  Oh,  never 
mind;  I  don't  believe  she  knew 
it." 

But  I  know  that  she  knew  it  now,  and 

I  just  believe,  I  do, 
That  her  poor  little  heart  was  broken, 

and  so  her  head  broke  too. 
Oh,  my  haby  !    my   little   baby !      I 

wish  my  head  had  been  hit ! 
For  I've  hit  it  over  and  over,  and  it 

hasn't  cracked  a  bit. 

But  since  the  darling  is  dead,  she'll 

want  to  be  buried,  of  course ; 
We  will  take  my  little  wagon,  Nurse, 

and  you  shall  be  the  horse  ; 
And  I'll  walk  behind  and  cry;   and 

Ave'll  put  her  in  this,  you  see — 
This  dear  little  box — and  we'll  bury 

her  then  under  the  maple  tree. 

And  papa  will  make  me  a  tombstone, 

like  the  one  he   made    for  my 

bird ; 
And  he'll  put  what  I  tell  him  on  it — 

yes,  every  single  word ! 
I  shall  say  :    "  Here  lies  Hildegarde, 

a  beautiful  doll  who  is  dead ; 
She  died   of  a  broken   heart   and  a 

dreadful  crack  in  her  head !" 

Margaret  Vandegrift. 

VOYAGE  IN  THE  ARM-CHAIR. 
Oh,  papa !  dear  papa !  we've  had  such 
a  fine  game ! 
We  played  at  a  sail  on  the  sea ; 
The  old  arm-chair  made  such  a  beau- 
tiful ship, 
And  it  sailed,  oh,  as  nice  as  could 
be. 


PLAY- DAYS. 


47 


AVe  made  Mary  the  captain,  and  Bob 
was  the  boy 
Who  cried,  "Ease  her,"  and  "Back 
her,"  and  "  Slow  ;" 
And    Jane  was   the    steersman    who 
stands  at  the  wheel, 
And  I  watched  the  engines  below. 

We  had   for  a  passenger  grandmam- 
ma's cat, 
And  as  Tom  couldn't  pay  he  went 
free ; 
From  the  fireside  we  sailed   at  half- 
past  two  o'clock, 
And  we  got  to  the  sideboard  at  three. 

But  oh  !  only  think,  dear  papa,  when 
halfway 
Tom  overboard  jumped  to  the  floor, 
And  though  we  cried  out,  "Tom,  come 
back ;  don't  be  drowned," 
He  galloped  right  out  of  the  door. 

But  papa,  dear  papa,  listen  one  mo- 
ment more, 
Till  I  tell  }rou  the  end  of  the  sail : 
From  the  sideboard  we  went  at  five 
minutes  past  three, 
And   at   four   o'clock    saw   such   a 
whale ! 

The  whale  was  the  sofa,  and  it,  dear 
papa, 
Is  at  least  twice  as  large  as  our  ship ; 
Our  captain  called  out,  "  Turn  the  ship 
round  about ! 
Oh,  I  wish  we  had  not  come  on  this 
trip !" 

And  we  all  cried,  "  Oh  yes,  let  us  get 
away  home, 
And  hide  in  some  corner  quite  snug;" 
So  we  sailed  for  the  fireside  as  quick 
as  we  could, 
And  we  landed  all  safe  on  the  rug. 


AMONG  THE  ANIMALS. 

One  rainy  morning, 

Just  for  a  lark, 
I  jumped  and  stamped 

On  my  new  Noah's  Ark ; 
I  crushed  an  elephant, 

Smashed  a  gnu, 
And  snapped  a  camel 

Clean  in  two ; 
I  finished  the  wolf 

Without  half  tryin', 
And  wild  hyena 

And  roaring  lion ; 
I  knocked  down  Ham, 

And  Japhet,  too, 
And  cracked  the  legs 

Of  the  kangaroo ; 
I  finished,  besides, 

Two  pigs  and  a  donkey, 
A  polar  bear, 

Opossum,  and  monkey ; 
Also  the  lions, 

Tigers,  and  cats, 
And  dromedaries, 

And  tiny  rats. 
There  wasn't  a  thing 

That  didn't  feel, 
Sooner  or  later, 

The  weight  o'  my  heel ; 
I  felt  as  grand 

As  grand  could  be ; 
But  oh  the  whipping 

My  mammy  gave  me ! 

Mary  Mapes  Dodjse. 


TOMMY'S  ARMY. 

I've  got  two  hundred  soldiers, 

An  army  brave  and  true ; 
And   some   are  dressed  in   blue  and 
red, 

And  some  in  white  and  blue. 


48 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK^QF   POETRY 


~  w^& 


I  put  them  in  the  window-seat, 
And  make  them  drill  in  line ; 

March,  march,  stiff  as  starch, 
Little  soldiers  mine! 

Marching  along,  marching  along, 

Little  lead  soldiers,  gallant  and  strong. 

There  are  fifty  little  clean  white  tents, 

And  half  a  dozen  forts, 
And  twenty  bright  brass  cannon, 

And  all  of  different  sorts. 
I  put  them  in  the  window-seat, 

And  don't  they  just  look  fine  ? 
March,  march,  stiff  as  starch, 

Little  soldiers  mine ! 
Marching  along,  marching  along, 
Little  lead  soldiers,  gallant  and  strong. 

I'd  like  to  be  a  soldier, 

And  wear  the  red  and  blue ; 
I  suppose  the  shots  don't  hurt  as  much 

As  people  say  they  do. 
My  soldiers  never  mind  the  peas, 

Although  they  hit  so  strong, 
And  Avhen  they  fall  I  pick  them  up, 

And  make  them  march  along. 
Marching  along,  marching  along, 
Little  lead  soldiers,  gallant  and  strong. 

Frederick  E.  Weatherly. 


PLAYING  KING. 

Ho !  I'm  a  king,  a  king !  A  crown  is 
on  my  head, 

A  sword  is  at  my  side,  and  regal  is  my 
tread ; 

Ho,  slave  !  proclaim  my  will  to  all  the 
people  round : 

The  schools  are  hereby  closed ;  hence- 
forth must  fun  abound. 

Vacation  shall  not  end;   all  slates  I 

order  smashed ; 
The  man  who  says  "Arithmetic,"  he 

must  be  soundly  thrashed ; 
All  grammars   shall    be   burnt;    the 

spellers  we  will  tear; 
The  boy  who  spells  correctly,  a  fool's 

cap  he  shall  wear. 

No  dolls  shall  be  allowed,  for  dolls  are 

what  I  hate ; 
The  girls  must  give  them  up,  and  learn 

to  swim  and  skate ; 
Confectioners  must  charge  only  a  cent 

a  pound 
For  all  the  plums  and  candy  that  in 

the  shops  are  found. 

That  man  who  asks  a  dime  for  any 

pear  or  peach, 
111  have  him  hung  so  high  that  none 

his  feet  can  reach  ; 


PLAY-DAYS. 


49 


No  baker  is  allowed  hereafter  to  bake 

bread — 
He  must  bake  only  pies  and  cake  and 

ginger-snaps  instead. 

All  lecturers  must  quit  our  realm  with- 
out delay  ; 

The  circus-men  and  clowns,  on  pain 
of  death,  must  stay ; 

All  folk  who  frown  on  fun  at  once  must 
banished  be. 

Xow,  fellow,  that  you  know  my  will, 
to  its  fulfilment  see ! 

Alfred  Selwyn. 


WILLIE  WINKIE. 

Wee  Willie  Winkie  rins  through  the 

town, 
Up  stairs  and  doon  stairs,  in  his  nicht- 

gown, 
Tirlin'  at  the  window,  cryin'  at  the  lock, 
"Are  the  weans  in  their  bed  ? — for  it's 

now  ten  o'clock." 

Hey,  Willie  Winkie !   are   ye  comin' 

ben? 
The  cat's   singin'  gay  thrums  to  the 

sleepin'  hen, 
The  doug's  speldered  on  the  floor,  and 

disna  gie  a  cheep ; 
But    here's    a  waukrife    laddie   that 

winna  fa'  asleep. 

Onything  but  sleep,  ye  rogue ! — glow- 

erin'  like  the  moon, 
Rattlin'  in   an   aim  jug  wi'  an   aim 

spoon, 
Rumblin,'  tumblin'  roun'  about,  craw- 

in'  like  a  cock, 
Skirlin'  like  a  kenna-what — wauknin' 

sleepin'  folk. 

4 


Hey,  Willie  Winkie !  the  we"an's  in  a 

creel ! 
Waumblin'  aff  a  bodie's  knee  like  a 

vera  eel, 
Ruggin'  at  the  cat's  lug,  and  ravellin' 

a'  her  thrums : 
Hey,  Willie  Winkie! — See,  there   he 

comes ! 

Weary  is  the  mither  that  has  a  storie 

wean, 
A  wee  stumpie  stoussie,  that  canna  rin 

his  lane, 
That  has  a  battle  aye  wi'  sleep  before 

he'll  close  an  ee ; 
But  a  kiss  frae  aff  his  rosy  lips  gies 

strength  anew  to  me. 

William  Miller. 


"HOLD  FAST  WHAT  I  GIVE  YOU." 

"  Molly,  and  Maggie,  and  Alice, 
Three  little  maids  in  a  row, 

At  play  in  an  arbor  palace, 

Where  the  honeysuckles  grow, — 

"  Six  dimpled  palms  press'd  together. 

Even  and  firm,  two  by  two, — 
Three  eager,  upturned  faces, 

Bonny  brown  eyes  and  blue. 

"  Which  shall  it  be,  0  you  charmers  ? 

Alas  !  I  am  sorely  tried,- — 
I,  a  hard-hearted  old  hermit. 

Who  the  question  am  set  to  decide. 

"  Molly,  the  sprite,  the  darling, 
Shaking  her  shower  of  curls, 

Whose  laugh  is  the  brook's  own  rip- 
ple, 
Gayest  and  gladdest  of  girls  ? 

"  Maggie,  the  wild  little  brownie, 
Every  one's  plaything  and  pet, 


50 


THE    CHILDREN'S 


again 


Who  leads  me  a  chase   through   the 
garden 
For  a  kiss,  the  wicked  coquette  ? 

"  Or  Alice  ? — ah  !  shy-eyed  Alice, 

Looking  so  softly  down 
Under  her  long,  dark  lashes 

And  hair  so  golden  brown, — 

"  Alice  Avho  talks  with  the  flowers, 
And  says  there  are  none  so  wise, — 

Who  knows  there  are  elves  and  fairies, 
For   hasn't   she   seen    their   bright 
eyes? 

"  There  !  there  !  at  last  I  am  ready 
To  go  down  the  bright  eager  row ; 

So,  up  with  your  hands,  my  Graces, 
Close, — nobody  else  must  know. 

"  '  Hold  fast  what  I  give  you,'  Molly ! 

(Poor  little  empty  palms  !) 
'  Hold  fast  what  I  give  you,'  Maggie  ! 

(A  frown  steals  over  her  charms.) 

"  '  Hold  fast  what  I  give  you,'  Alice  ! 

You  smile, — do  you  so  much  care? 
Unclasp  your  little  pink  fingers  : 

Ah  ha !  the  button  is  there ! 

"  But  do  you  know,  sweet  Alice, 
All  that  I  give  you  to  keep  ? 

For  into  my  heart  you  have  stolen, 
As  sunbeams  to  shadows  creep. 

"  You  a  glad  little  maiden, — 

How  old  are  you  ?     Only  nine, — 

With    your    bright,   brown    hair   all 
shining, 
While  the  gray  is  coming  to  mine. 

"  No  matter,  you'll  be  my  true-love, 
And  come  to  my  old  arms  so  ; 

And  '  hold  fast  what  I  give  you,'  Alice, 
For  nobody  else  must  know." 

Lily  Warner. 


BOOK    OF   POETRY, 

-WHAT? 

|  What  was   it  that   Charlie  saw,  to- 
day, 
Down  in  the  pool  where  the  cattle 
lie? 
A    shoal    of    the    spotted    trout    at 
play  ? 
Or  a  sheeny  dragon-fly  ? 

The  fly  and  the  fish  were  there  in- 
deed ; 
But    as     for     the     ipuzjXe,  —  guess 


It  was  neither  a  shell,  nor  flower,  nor 
reed, 
Nor  the  nest  of  a  last  year's  wren. 

Some  willows  droop  to  the  brooklet's 
bed ; — 
Who  knows  but  a  bee   had   fallen 
down  ? 
Or  a  spider,  swung  from  his  broken 
thread, 
Was  learning  the  way  to  drown  ? 

You   have   not   read    me    the   riddle 
yet. 
Not  even   the  Aving  of  a  wounded 
bee, 
Nor  the  web  of  a  spider,  torn  and 
wet, 
Did  Charlie  this  morning  see. 

Now  answer,  you  who  have  grown  so 
wise, — 
What    could   the   wonderful    sight 
have  been, 
But  the  dimpled  face  and  great  blue 
eyes 
Of  the  rogue  who  was  looking  in  ? 

Kate  Putnam  Osgood. 


PLAY-DAYS. 


51 


A  COMFORTER. 

"  Will  she  come  to  me,  little  Erne  ? 

Will  she  come  in  my  arms  to  rest, 
And  nestle  her  head  on  my  shoulder, 

While  the  sun  goes   down   in  the 
west  ? 

"  I  and  Erne  will  sit  together, 

All  alone  in  this  great  arm-chair  : — 

Is  it  silly  to  mind  it,  darling, 
When  life  is  so  hard  to  bear  ? 

"  No  one  comforts  me  like  my  Effie, 
Just  I  think  that  she  does  not  try, — 

Only  looks  with  a  wistful  wonder 
Why  grown  people  should  ever  cry ; 


"  While    her    little   soft    arms    close 

tighter 

Round  my  neck  in   their  clinging 

hold  ;— 

Well,  I  must  not  cry  on  your  hair,  dear, 

For  my  tears  might  tarnish  the  gold. 

"  I  am  tired  of  trying  to  read,  dear  ; 

It  is  worse  to  talk  and  seem  gay  : 
There  are  some  kinds  of  sorrow,  Effie, 

It  is  useless  to  thrust  away. 

"  Ah,  advice  may  be  wise,  my  darling, 
But  one  always  knows  it  before, 

And  the  reasoning  down  one's  sorrow 
Seems  to  make  one  suffer  the  more. 


52 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OE   POETRY. 


"  But  my  Effie  won't  reason,  will  she? 

Or  endeavor  to  understand  ? 
Only  holds  up  her  mouth  to  kiss  me 

As  she  strokes  my  faee  with  her  hand. 

"  If  you  break  your  plaything  your- 
self, dear, 

Don't  you  cry  for  it  all  the  same? 
I  don't  think  it  is  such  a  comfort 

One  has  only  one's  self  to  blame. 

"  People  say  things  cannot  be  helped, 
dear, 
But  then  that  is  the  reason  why ; 
For  if  things  could  be  helped  or  al- 
tered, 
One  would  never  sit  down  to  cry. 

"  They  say,  too,  that  tears  are  quite 
useless 

To  undo,  amend,  or  restore ; 
When  I  think  haw  useless,  my  Effie, 

Then  my  tears  only  fall  the  more. 

"  All  to-day  I  struggled  against  it, 
But  that  does  not  make  sorrow  cease, 

And  now,  dear,  it  is  such  a  comfort 
To  be  able  to  cry  in  peace.  , 

"  Though  wise  people  would  call  that 
folly, 
And  remonstrate  with  grave  surprise, 
We  won't  mind  what  they  say,  my 
Effie  — 
We  never  professed  to  be  wise. 

"  But  my  comforter  knows  a  lesson 
Wiser,  truer  than  all  the  rest — 

That  to  help  and  to  heal  a  sorrow 
Love  and  silence  are  always  best. 

"  Well,  who  is  my  comforter — tell  me  ? 

Effie  smiles,  but  she  will  not  speak, 
Or  look  up  through  the  long  curled 
lashes 

That  are  shading  her  rosy  cheek. 


"  Is  she  thinking  of  talking  fishes, 
The  blue-bird,  or  magical  tree? 

Perhaps  7  am  thinking,  my  darling, 
Of  something  that  never  can  be. 

"  You  long — don't  you,  dear, — for  the 
genii, 
Who  were  slaves  of  lamps  and  of 
rings  ? 
And  I — I  am  sometimes  afraid,  dear, 
I  want  as  impossible  things. 

"  But  hark !    there  is   Nurse    calling 
Effie! 

It  is  bedtime  ;  so  run  away ; 
And  I  must  go  back,  or  the  others 

Will  be  wondering  why  I  stay. 

"  So  good-night  to  my  darling  Effie ; 

Keep  happy,  sweetheart,  and  grow 
wise : 
There's  one  kiss  for  her  golden  tresses. 

And  two  for  her  sleepy  eyes." 

Adelaide  Anne  Pkocter. 

MAMMA'S  KISSES. 

A  kiss  when  I  wake  in  the  morning, 

A  kiss  when  I  go  to  bed, 
A  kiss  when  I  burn  my  fingers, 

A  kiss  when  I  bump  my  head; 

A  kiss  when  my  bath  is  over, 
A  kiss  when  my  bath  begins  ; 

My  mamma  is  as  full  of  kisses — 
As  full  as  nurse  is  of  pins. 

A  kiss  when  I  play  with  ni}7  rattle, 
A  kiss  when  I  pull  her  hair ; 

She  covered  me  over  with  kisses 
The  clay  that  I  fell  down  stair. 

A  kiss  when  I  give  her  trouble, 
A  kiss  when  I  give  her  joy  : 

There's  nothing  like  mamma's  kisses 
To  her  own  little  baby-boy. 


"LITTLE  CHILDREN,  LOVE  ONE 
ANOTHER." 

A  little  girl,  with  a  happy  look, 

Sat  slowly  reading  a  ponderous  book 

All  bound  with  velvet  and  edged  with 
gold, 

And  its  weight  was  more  than  the 
child  could  hold ; 

Yet  dearly  she  loved  to  ponder  it 
o'er, 

And  every  day  she  prized  it  more; 

For  it  said — and  she  looked  at  her 
smiling  mother — i 

It  said,  "  Little  children,  love  one  an- 
other." 


She  thought  it  was  beautiful   in  the 

book, 
And  the  lesson  home  to  her  heart  she 

took ; 


She  walked  on  her  way  with  a  trust- 
ing grace, 

And  a  dove-like  look  in  her  meek 
young  face, 

Which  said,  just  as  plain  as  words 
could  say, 

"  The  Holy  Bible  I  must  obey; 

So,  mamma,  I'll  be  kind  to  my  darling 
brother, 

For  little  children  must  love  each 
other. 

"  I'm  sorr)-  he's  naughty,  and  will  not 

play ; 

But  I'll  love  him  still,  for  I  think  the 

way 
To  make  him  gentle  and  kind  to  me 
Will  be  better  shown  if  I  let  him  see 
I  strive  to  do  what  I  think  is  right ; 
And  thus,  when  I  kneel  in  prayer  to- 
night, 


54 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


I  will  clasp  my  hands  around  my 
brother, 

And  say, '  Little  children  love  one  an- 
other.' " 


The  little  girl  did  as  her  Bible  taught, 
And  pleasant  indeed  was  the  change 

it  wrought; 
For  the  boy  looked  up  in  glad  sur- 
prise, 
To    meet    the    light    of    her    loving 

eyes  : 
His    heart    was    full,   he    could    not 

speak, 
But  he  pressed  a  kiss  on  his  sister's 

cheek ; 
And  God  looked  down  on  that  happy 

mother 
Whose    little    children     loved     each 

other. 

Aunt  Mary. 


MAKING  MUD-PIES. 

Under  the  apple  tree,  spreading  and 
thick, 

Happy  with  only  a  pan  and  a  stick, 

On  the  soft  grass  in  the  shadow  that 
lies, 

Our  little  Fanny  is  making  mud- 
pies. 


On  her  brown  apron  and  bright  droop- 
ing head 

Showers  of  pink  and  white  blossoms 
are  shed ; 

Tied  to  a  branch  that  seems  meant 
just  for  that, 

Dances  and  nutters  her  little  straw 
hat. 


Dash,  full  of  joy  in  the  bright  summer 
day, 

Zealously  chases  the  robins  away, 

Barks  at  the  squirrels  or  snaps  at  the 
flies, 

All  the  while  Fanny  is  making  mud- 
pies. 

Sunshine  and  soft  summer  breezes 
astir 

While  she  is  busy  are  busy  with 
her ; 

Cheeks  rosy  glowing  and  bright  spark- 
ling eyes 

Bring  they  to  Fanny  while  making 
mud-pies. 

Dollies  and  playthings  are  all  laid 
away, 

Not  to  come  out  till  the  next  rainy 
day ; 

Under  the  blue  of  these  sweet  sum- 
mer skies 

Nothing's  so  pleasant  as  making  mud- 
pies. 

Gravely  she  stirs,  with  a  serious 
look 

"  Making  believe  "  she's  a  true  pastry 
cook ; 

Sundry  brown  splashes  on  forehead 
and  eyes 

Show  that  our  Fanny  is  making  mud- 
pies. 

But    all    the    soil    of    her    innocent 

play 
Soap  and  clean  water  will  soon  wash 

away ; 
Many  a  pleasure  in  daintier  guise 
Leaves   darker   traces    than   Fanny's 

mud-pies. 


PLAT-DAYS. 


55 


WWTOJs^ 


THE  CHILDREN'S  HOUR. 

Between  the  dark  and  the  daylight, 
When   the   night   is    beginning   to 
lower, 
Comes  a  pause  in  the  day's  occupa- 
tions, 
That   is   known   as  the    Children's 
Hour. 

I  hear  in  the  chamber  above  me 

The  patter  of  little  feet. 
The  sound  of  a  door  that  is  opened, 

And  voices  soft  and  sweet. 

From  my  study  I   see   in  the   lamp- 
light, 

Descending  the  broad  hall-stair, 
Grave  Alice,  and  laughing  Allegra, 

And  Edith  with  golden  hair. 

A  whisper,  and  then  a  silence : 
Yet  I  know  by  their  merry  eyes 


They  are  plotting   and   planning  to- 
gether 
To  take  me  by  surprise. 

A  sudden  rush  from  the  stairway, 
A  sudden  raid  from  the  hall ! 

By  three  doors  left  unguarded 
They  enter  my  castle-wall ! 

They  climb  up  into  my  turret, 
O'er  the  arms  and  back  of  my  chair ; 

If  I  try  to  escape  they  surround  me; 
They  seem  to  be  everywhere. 

They  almost  devour  me  with  kisses, 
Their  arms  about  me  entwine, 

Till  I  think  of  the  Bishop  of  Bingen 
In  his  Mouse-Tower  on  the  Rhine! 

Do  you  think,  0  blue-eyed  banditti, 
Because  you  have  scaled  the  wall, 

Such  an  old  moustache  as  I  am 
Is  not  a  match  for  you  all '? 


56 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY 


I  have  }rou  fast  in  my  fortress, 
And  will  not  let  you  depart, 

But  put  you  down  into  the  dungeon 
In  the  round-tower  of  my  heart. 


Kitty — ah,  how  my  heart  blesses 
Kitty,  my  lily,  my  rose ! 

Wary  of  all  my  caresses, 
Chary  of  all  she  bestows. 


And  there  will  I  keep  you  for  ever, 

Yes,  for  ever  and  a  day, 
Till  the  walls  shall  crumble  to  ruin, 

And  moulder  in  dust  away  ! 


Henby  Wadswobth  Longfellow. 


MY  CHILDREN. 

Have  you  seen  Annie  and  Kitty, 
Two  merry  children  of  mine? 

All  that  is  winning  and  pretty 
Their  little  persons  combine. 

Annie  is  kissing  and  clinging 
Dozens  of  times  in  a  day — 

Chattering,  laughing,  and  singing, 
Romping  and  running  away. 

Annie  knows  all  of  her  neighbors, 

Dainty  and  dirty  alike — 
Learns  all  their  talk,  and,  "bejabers," 

Says  she  "  adores  little  Mike." 

Annie  goes  mad  for  a  flower, 
Eager  to  pluck  and  destroy — 

Cuts  paper  dolls  by  the  hour, 
Always  her  model — a  boy. 

Annie  is  full  of  her  fancies, 
Tells  most  remarkable  lies 

( Innocent  little  romances, 
Startling  in  one  of  her  size). 

Three  little  prayers  we  have  taught  her, 
Graded  from  winter  to  spring  ; 

Oh,  you  should  listen  my  daughter 
Saying  them  all  in  a  string ! 


Kitty  loves  quietest  places, 

Whispers  sweet  sermons  to  chairs, 
And  with  the  gravest  of  faces 

Teaches  old  Carlo  his  prayers. 

Matronly,  motherly  creature ! 

Oh,  what  a  doll  she  has  built — 
Guiltless  of  figure  or  feature — 

Out  of  her  own  little  quilt! 

Naught  must  come  near  it  to  wake  it ; 

Noise  must  not  give  it  alarm ; 
And  when  she  sleeps  she  must  take  it 

Into  her  bed  on  her  arm. 

Kitty  is  shy  of  a  caller, 

Uttering  never  a  word, ' 
But  when  alone  in  the  parlor 

Talks  to  herself  like  a  bird. 

Kitty  is  contrary,  rather, 
And,  with  a  comical  smile, 

Mutters  "  I  won't "  to  her  father, 
Eying  him  slyly  the  while. 

Loving  one  more  than  the  other 

Isn't  the  thing,  I  confess ; 
And  I  observe  that  their  mother 

Makes  no  distinction  in  dress. 

Preference  must  be  improper 

In  a  relation  like  this ; 
I  wouldn't  toss  up  a  copper — 

Kitty,  come,  give  me  a  kiss  ! 

J.  G.  Holland. 


PLAY-DAYS. 


57 


LITTLE  HELPERS. 
Planting  the  corn  and  potatoes. 

Helping  to  scatter  the  seeds, 
Feeding  the  hens  and  the  chickens, 

Freeing  the  garden  from  weeds, 
Driving  the  cows  to  the  pasture, 

Feeding  the  horse  in  the  stall, — 
We  little  children  are  busy ; 

Sure,  there  is  work  for  us  all, 
Helping  Papa. 

Spreading  the  hay  in  the  sunshine, 

Raking  it  up  when  it's  dry, 
Picking  the  apples  and  peaches 

Down  in  the  orchard  hard  by, 
Picking  the  grapes  in  the  vineyard, 

Gathering  nuts  in  the  fall, — 
We  little  children  are  busy  ; 

Yes,  there  is  work  for  us  all, 
Helping  Papa. 


Sweeping  and  washing  the  dishes, 

Bringing  the  wood  from  the  shed, 
Ironing,  sewing,  and  knitting, 

Helping  to  make  up  the  beds, 
Taking  good  care  of  the  baby, 

Watching  her  lest  she  should  fall,- 
We  little  children  are  busy ; 

Oh,  there  is  work  for  us  all. 
Helping  Mamma. 


Work  makes  us  cheerful  and  happy 

Makes  us  both  active  and  strong ; 
Play  we  enjoy  all  the  better 

When  we  have  labored  so  long. 
Gladly  we  help  our  kind  parents. 

Quickly  we  come  to  their  call, 
Children  should  love  to  be  busy, — 

There  is  much  work  for  us  all, 
Helping  Papa  and  Mamma. 


58 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY 


LITTLE  FINGERS. 

Busy  little  fingers, 
Everywhere  they  go, 

Rosy  little  fingers, 

The  sweetest  that  I  know ! 

Now  into  my- work-box, 
All  the  buttons  finding, 

Tangling  up  the  knitting, 
Every  spool  unwinding ! 

Now  into  the  basket 

Where  the  keys  are  hidden, 
Full  of  mischief  looking, 

Knowing  it  forbidden. 

Then  in  mother's  tresses, 
Now  her  neck  enfolding, 

With  such  sweet  caresses 
Keeping  off  a  scolding. 

Daring  little  fingers, 
Never,  never  still ! 


Make  them,  heavenly  Father, 
Always  do  thy  will. 

"Apples  of  Gold." 

NOTHING  TO  DO. 

I  have  sailed  my  boat  and  spun  my 
top, 
And  handled  my  last  new  ball ; 
I  trundled  my   hoop   till   I   had   to 
stop, 
And  I  swung  till  I  got  a  fall ; 
I  tumbled  my  books  all  out  of  the 
shelves, 
And  hunted  the  pictures  through  ; 
I've  flung  them  where  they  may  sort 
themselves,     ■ 
And  now — I  have  nothing  to  do. 

The  Tower  of  Babel  I  built  of  blocks 
Came  down  with  a  crash  to  the  floor ; 

My  train  of  cars  ran  over  the  rocks — 
I'll  warrant  they'll  run  no  more; 


PLAY-DAYS. 


59 


I  have  raced  with  Grip  till  I'm  out  of 
breath ; 
My  slate  is  broken  in  two, 
So  I  can't  draw  monkeys.     I'm  tired 
to  death 
Because  I  have  nothing  to  do. 

I  can  see  where  the  boys  have  gone  to 
fish; 

They  bothered  me,  too,  to  go, 
But  for  fun  like  that  I  hadn't  a  wish, 

For  I  think  it's  mighty  "  slow  " 
To  sit  all  day  at  the  end  of  a  rod 

For  the  sake  of  a  minnow  or  two, 
Or  to  land,  at  the  farthest,  an  eel  on 
the  sod : 

I'd  rather  have  nothing  to  do. 

Maria  has  gone  to  the  woods  for  flow- 
ers, 
And  Luc}T  and  Rose  are  away 


After  berries.     I'm  sure  they've  been 
out  for  hours ; 
I  wonder  what  makes  them  stay  ? 
Ned  wanted  to  saddle  Brunette  for  me. 

But  riding  is  nothing  new ; 
"  I  was  thinking  you'd  relish  a  canter," 
said  he, 
"  Because  you  have  nothing  to  do.'' 

I  wish  I  was  poor  Jim  Foster's  son. 

For  he  seems  so  happy  and  gay, 
When  his  wood  is  chopped  and  his 
work  all  done, 

With  his  little  half  hour  of  play  : 
He  neither  has  books  nor  top  nor  ball, 

Yet    he's    singing   the   whole    clay 
through ; 
But  then  he  is  never  tired  at  all 

Because  he  has  nothing  to  do. 


60 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


BOYS'  PLAY  AND  GIRLS'  PLAY. 

"  Now,  let's  have  a  game  of  play, 
Lucy,  Jane,  and  little  May  ! 
I  will  be  a  grizzly  bear, 
Prowling  here  and  prowling  then 
Sniffing  round  and  round  about, 
Till  I  find  you  children  out; 
And  my  dreadful  den  shall  be 
Deep  within  the  hollow  tree." 


"  Oh  no !  jjlease  not,  Robert  dear, 
Do  not  be  a  grizzly  bear; 
Little  May  was  half  afraid 
When  she  heard  the  noise  you  made. 
Roaring  like  a  lion  strong, 
Just  now  as  you  came  along ; 
And    she'll    scream    and    start   to- 
night 
If  you  give  her  any  fright." 

"  Well,  then,  I  will  be  a  fox  ! 
You  shall  be  the  hens  and  cocks, 
In  the  farmer's  apple  tree 
Crowing  out  so  lustily  ; 
I  will  softly  creep  this  way — 
Peep — and  pounce  upon  my  prey ; 
And  I'll  bear  you  to  my  den, 
Where  the  fern  grows  in  the  glen." 


PLAY-DAYS. 


61 


"Oh  no,  Robert !  you're  so  strong, 
While  you're  dragging  us  along 
I'm  afraid  you'll  tear  our  frocks : 
We  won't  play  at  hens  and  cocks." 

"  If  you  won't  play  fox  or  bears, 
I'm  a  dog,  and  you  be  hares ; 
Then  you'll  only  have  to  run, — 
Girls  are  never  up  to  fun." 

"You've  your  play,  and  we  have  ours. 

Go  and  climb  the  trees  again  ! 

I,  and  little  May,  and  Jane, 
Are  so  happy  with  our  flowers  ! 
Jane  is  culling  foxglove  bells, 

May  and  I  are  making  posies, 
And  we  want  to  search  the  dells 

For  the  latest  summer  roses." 

Mrs.  Hawtrey. 


THE  SLEEPY  LITTLE  SISTER. 

I  sat,  one  evening,  watching 

A  little  golden  head 
That  was  nodding  o'er  a  picture-book, 

And  pretty  soon  I  said, 
"  Come,  darling,  you  are  sleep}^, 

Don't  you  want  to  go  to  bed  ?" 
"  No,"  she  said,  "  I  isn't  sleepy, 

But  I  can't  hold  up  my  head. 

iC  Just  now  it  feels  so  heavy 

There  isn't  any  use ; 
Do  let  me  lay  it  down  to  rest 

On  dear  old  Mother  Goose. 
I  sha'n't  shut  up  my  eyes  at  all, 

And  so  you  need  not  fear ; 
I'll  keep  them  open  all  the  while, 

To  see  this  picture  here." 

And  then,  as  I  said  nothing, 

She  settled  for  a  nap ; 
One  curl  was  resting  on  the  frill 

Of  the  old  lady's  cap  ; 


Her    arms     embraced     the    children 
small 
Inhabiting  the  shoe ; 
"  Oh  dear  !"  thought  I,  "  what  shall  I 
say? 
For  this  will  never  do." 

I  sat  a  while  in  silence, 

Till    the    clock    struck    its   "  ding, 
ding," 
And  then  I  went  around  and  kissed 

The  cunning  little  thing. 
The  violets  unfolded 

As  I  kissed  her,  and  she  said, 
"  I  isn't  sleepy,  sister, 

But  I  guess  I'll  go  to  bed." 

GEORIilANA  M'NEIL. 


THE  RABBIT  ON  THE  WALL. 

The  cottage-work  is  over, 

The  evening  meal  is  done  ; 
Hark !  through  the  starlit  stillness 

You  hear  the  river  run  ; 
The  cotter's  children  whisper, 

Then  speak  out  one  and  all : 
"  Come,  father,  make  for  Johnny 

A  rabbit  on  the  wall." 


He  smilingly  assenting, 

They  gather  round  his  chair : 
'•  Now,  grandma,  you  hold  Johnny 

Don't  let  the  candle  flare." 
So  speaking,  from  his  fingers 

He  throws  a  shadow  tall, 
That  seems  the  moment  after 

A  rabbit  on  the  wall. 

The  children  shout  with  laughter. 
The  uproar  louder  grows, 

E'en  grandma  chuckles  faintly, 
And  Johnny  chirps  and  crows. 


82 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


There  ne'er  was  gilded  painting 

Hung  up  in  lordly  hall 
Gave  half  the  simple  pleasure 

This  rabbit  on  the  wall. 

Ah  !  who  does  not  remember 

When  humble  sports  like  these 
Than  many  a  costlier  pastime 

Had  greater  power  to  please  ? 
When  o'er  life's  autumn  pathway 

The  sere  leaves  thickly  fall, 
How  oft  we  sigh,  recalling 

The  rabbit  on  the  wall ! 

Catherine  Allan. 


UNDER  MY  WINDOW. 
Under  my  window,  under  my  win- 
dow, 
All  in  the  midsummer  weather, 
Three  little  girls  with  fluttering  curls 

Flit  to  and  fro  together : — 
There's  Bell  with  her  bonnet  of  satin 

sheen, 
And  Maud  with  her  mantle  of  silver 
green, 
And  Kate  with  her  scarlet  feather. 

Under  my  window,  under   my  win- 
dow, 
Leaning  stealthily  over, 
Merry  and  clear  the  voice  I  hear 

Of  each  glad-hearted  rover. 
Ah !    sly  little   Kate,   she  steals   my 

roses ; 
And  Maud   and   Bell  twine  wreaths 
and  posies, 
As  merry  as  bees  in  clover. 

Under  my  window,  under  my  win- 
dow, 

In  the  blue  midsummer  weather, 
Stealing  slow,  on  a  hushed  tiptoe, 

I  catch  them  all  together  :  — 


Bell  with  her  bonnet  of  satin  sheen, 
And  Maud  with  her  mantle  of  silver 
green, 
And  Kate  with  the  scarlet  feather. 

Under  my  window,  under  my  win- 

dow, 

And  off  through  the  orchard-closes, 

While  Maud  she  flouts,  and  Bell  she 

pouts, 

They  scamper  and  drop  their  posies. 

But    dear   little   Kate   takes,  naught 

amiss, 
And  leaps  in  my  arms  with  a  loving 
kiss, 
And  I  give  her  all  my  roses. 

Thomas  Westwood. 


LETTING  THE  OLD  CAT  DIE. 

Not  long  ago  I  wandered  near 
A  play-ground  in  the  wood, 

And  there  heard  a  thing  from  youth- 
ful lips 
That  I've  never  understood. 

"  Now  let  the  old  cat  die,"  he  laughed  ; 

I  saw  him  give  a  push, 
Then  gayly  scamper  away  as  he  spied 

My  face  peep  over  the  bush. 

But   what    he    pushed,    or   where    it 
went, 
I  could  not  well  make  out, 
On  account  of  the  thicket  of  bending 
boughs 
That  bordered  the  place  about. 

"  The  little  villain  has  stoned  a  cat, 

Or  hung  it  upon  a  limb, 
And  left  it  to  die  all  alone,"  I  said ; 
■  "  But  I'll  play  the  mischief  with 
Aim." 


PLAY-DAYS. 


63 


I  forced  my  way  between  the  boughs, 

The  poor  old  cat  to  seek  ; 
And  what  did  I  find  but  a  swinging 
child, 
With  her  bright  hair  brushing  her 
cheek  ! 

Her  bright  hair  floated  to  and  fro, 
Her  red  little  dress  flashed  by, 

But  the  liveliest  thing  of  all,  I  thought, 
Was   the  gleam    of   her  laughing 
eye. 

Swinging    and    swaying    back    and 
forth, 
With  the  rose-light  in  her  face, 
She  seemed  like  a  bird  and  a  flower 
in  one, 
And  the  wood  her  native  place. 

"  Steady !  I'll  send  you  up,  my  child  !" 
But  she  stopped  me  with  a  cry  : 


"  Go  'way !  go  'way !     Don't  touch  me. 
please ; 
I'm  letting  the  old  cat  die  !" 

"  You  letting  him  die !"  I  cried  aghast : 
"  Why,  where  is  the  cat,  my  dear?1' 

And  lo!  the  laughter  that  filled  the 
woods 
Was  a  thing  for  the  birds  to  hear. 

"  Why,  don't  you  know,"  said  the  lit- 
tle maid, 

The  flitting,  beautiful  elf, 
"  That  we  call  it '  letting  the  old  cat  die ' 

When  the  swing  stops  all  itself?" 

Then  floating  and  swinging,  and  look- 
ing back 
With  merriment  in  her  eye, 
She  bade  me  "good-day,"  and  I  left 
her  alone, 
A-letting  the  old  cat  die. 

Mary  Mapes  Dodge. 


64 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


POLLY. 
Brown  eyes, 

Straight  nose ; 
Dirt-pies, 

Rumpled  clothes ; 

Torn  books, 

Spoilt  toys  ; 
Arch  looks, 

Unlike  a  boy's ; 

Little  rages, 
Obvious  arts ; 

(Three  her  age  is), 
Cakes,  tarts ; 

Falling  down 

Off  chairs ; 
Breaking  crown 

Down  stairs  ; 


Catching  flies 
On  the  pane ; 

Deep  sighs — 
Cause  not  plain ; 

Bribing  you 

With  kisses 
For  a  few 

Farthing  blisses ; 

Wide  awake, 

As  you  hear, 
"  Mercy's  sake ! 

Quiet,  dear!" 

New  shoes, 

New  frock ; 
Vague  views  # 

Of  what's  o'clock 

When  it's  time 

To  go  to  bed, 
And  scorn  sublime 

For  what  is  said  ; 

Folded  hands, 

Saying  prayers, 
Understands 

Not,  nor  cares ; 

Thinks  it  odd ; 

Smiles  away ; 
Yet  may  God 

Hear  her  pray  ! 

Bed-gown  white, 

Kiss  Dolly ; 
Good  night ! — 

That's  Polly. 

Fast  asleep, 

As  you  see ; 
Heaven  keep 

My  girl  for  me! 

"Lilliput  Levee.' 


PLAY-DAYS. 


65 


IN  THE  CLOSET. 

They've  taken  away  the  ball, 

Oh  dear ! 
And  I'll  never  get  it  back, 

I  fear ; 
And  now  they've  gone  away, 
And  left  me  here  to  stay 
All  alone  the  live-long-day 

In  here. 


It  was  my  ball,  anyway — 

Not  his, 
For  he  never  had  a  ball 

Like  this. 
Such  a  coward  you'll  not  see, 
E'en  if  you  should  live  to  be 
Old  as  Deuteronomy, 

As  he  is. 

I'm  sure  I  meant  no  harm — 

None  at  all ! 
I  just  held  out  my  hand 

For  the  ball, 
And  somehow  it  hit  his  head  ; 
Then  his  nose  it  went  and  bled. 
And  as  if.  I'd  killed  him  dead 

He  did  bawl. 

Nursey  said  I  was  a  horrid 

Little  wretch, 
And  Aunt  Jane  said  the  police 

She  would  fetch  ; 
And  cook,  who's  always  glad 
Of  a  chance  to  make  me  mad, 
Said,  "  Indeed,  she  niver  had 

Seen  setch  !" 

No,  I  never,  never  will 

Be  good ! 
I'll  go  and  be  a  babe 

In  the  wood ! 

5 


I'll  run  away  to  sea, 
And  a  pirate  I  will  be  ! 
Then  they'll  never  call  me 
Rough  and  rude. 

How  hungry  I  am  getting ! 

Let  me  see — 
I  wonder  what  they're  going  to  have 

For  tea  ? 
Of  course  there  will  be  jam, 
And  that  lovely  potted  ham. 
How  unfortunate  I  am  ! 

Dear  me ! 

Oh  !  it's  growing  very  dark 

In  here, 
And  the  shadow  in  that  corner 

Looks  so  queer ! 
Won't  they  bring  me  any  light  ? 
Must  I  stay  in  here  all  night  ? 
I  shall  surely  die  of  fright ; 

Oh  dear! 

Mother,  darling  !  will  you  never 

Come  back  ? 
I  am  sorry  that  I  hit  him 

Such  a  crack ! 
Hark !     Yes,  'tis  her  voice  I  hear ! 
Now  good-bye  to  every  fear. 
For  she's  calling  me  her  dear 

Little  Jack ! 

Laura  E.  Richards. 


MY  GOOD-FOR-NOTHING. 

"  What  are  you  good  for,  my  brave 

little  man  ? 
Answer  that  question  for  me.  if  you 

can — 
You,  with  your  fingers  as  white  as  a 

nun, 
You,  with  your  ringlets  as  bright  as 

the  sun. 


66 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


All  the  day  long,  with  your  busy  con- 
triving, 

Into  all  mischief  and  fun  you '  are 
driving ; 

See  if  your  wise  little  noddle  can  tell 

What  you  are  good  for.  Now  ponder 
it  well." 

Over  the  carpet  the  dear  little  feet 
Came  with  a  patter  to  climb  on  my 
seat ; 


Two  merry  eyes,  full  of  frolic  and 
glee, 

Under  their  lashes  looked  up  unto  me ; 

Two  little  hands,  pressing  soft  on  my 
face, 

Drew  me  down  close  in  a  loving  em- 
brace ; 

Two  rosy  lips  gave  the  answer  so  true, 

"  Good  to  love  you,  mamma — good  to 
love  you." 

Emily  Huntington  Miller. 


FATHER  IS  COMING. 


The  clock  is  on  the  stroke  of  six, 
The  father's  work  is  done ; 

Sweep  up  the  hearth,  and  mend  the  fire, 
And  put  the  kettle  on  ; 

The  wild  night-wind  is  blowing  cold, 

'Tie  dreary  crossing  o'er  the  wold. 

He's  crossing  o'er  the  wold  apace, 
He's  stronger  than  the  storm  ; 

He  does  not  feel  the  cold ;  not  he — 
His  heart  it  is  so  warm  ; 

For  father's  heart  is  stout  and  true 

As  ever  human  bosom  knew  ! 

He  makes  all  toil,  all  hardship  light ; 

Would  all  men  were  the  same  ! 
So  ready  to  be  pleased,  so  kind, 

So  very  slow  to  blame  ! 


Folks  need  not  be  unkind,  austere, 
For  love  hath  readier  will  than  fear. 

Nay,  do  not  close  the  shutters,  child. 

For  far  along  the  lane 
The  little  window  looks,  and  he 

Can  see  it  shining  plain. 
I've  heard  him  say  he  loves  to  mark 
The   cheerful    fire-light   through   the 
dark. 

And  we'll  do  all  that  father  likes ; 

His  wishes  are  so  few — 
Would   they  were   more — that  every 
hour 

Some  wish  of  his  I  knew ! 
I'm  sure  it  makes  a  happy  day 
When  I  can  please  him  any  way. 


PLAY-DJTS. 


I  know  he's  coining,  by  this  sign —  'Hark!    hark!    I    hear    his    footsteps 

That  Bab^y's  almost  wild ;  now ; 

See  how  he  laughs,  and  crows,  and  He's  through  the  garden-gate ; 

stares  !  Run,  little  Bess,  and  ope  the  door, 

Heaven  bless  the  merry  child  !  And  do  not  let  him  wait ! 

He's  father's  self  in  face  and  limb,  Shout,  Baby,  shout,  and  clap  thy  hands. 

And     father's     heart     is     strong     in  For  father  on  the  threshold  stands ! 

Y^lYCi  Mary  Howitt. 


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THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY 


A  LITTLE  GOOSE. 


The  chill  November  day  was  done, 

The  working-world  home-faring ; 
The  wind  came  roaring  through  the 
streets, 

And  set  the  gas-lights  flaring, 
And  hopelessly  and  aimlessly 

The  scared  old  leaves  were  flying, 
When,   mingled    with   the    soughing 
wind, 

I  heard  a  small  voice  crying  ; 

And  shivering  on  the  corner  stood 

A  child  of  four,  or  over ; 
No  cloak  or  hat  her  small,  soft  arms 

And  wind-blown  curls  to  cover  ; 
Her  dimpled   face  was  stained  with 
tears, 

Her  round  blue  eyes  ran  over ; 
She  cherished  in  her  wee,  cold  hand 

A  bunch  of  faded  clover. 


And,  one  hand   round   her  treasure, 
while 

She  slipped  in  mine  the  other, 
Half  scared,  half  confidential,  said, 

"Oh,  please,  I  want  my  mother!" 
"  Tell  me  your  street  and  number,  pet. 

Don't  cry  ;  I'll  take  you  to  it," 
Sobbing,  she  answered,  "  I  forget ; 

The  organ  made  me  do  it. 

'"  He  came  and  played  at  Miller's  step, 

The  monkey  took  the  money ; 
T  followed  down  the  street  because 

That  monkey  was  so  funny. 
I've  walked  about  a  hundred  hours, 

From  one  street  to  another ; 
The  monkey's  gone ;  I've  spoiled  my 
flowers ; 

Oh,  please,  I  want  my  mother !" 


But  what's  your  mother's  name,  and 
what 

The    street?       Now   think   a   min- 
ute." 
My  mother's  name  is  Mother  Dear ; 

The  street — I  can't  begin  it." 
But  what  is  strange  about  the  house, 

Or  new — not  like  the  others  ?" 
I  guess  you  mean  my  trundle-bed — 

Mine  and  my  little  brother's. 


"  Oh  dear  !  I  ought  to  be  at  home 

To  help  him  say  his  prayers — 
He's  such  a  baby,  he  forgets, 

And  we  are  both  such  players ; 
And  there's  a  bar  between,  to  keep 

From  pitching  on  each  other, 
For  Harry  rolls  when  he's  asleep ; 

Oh  dear !  I  want  my  mother !" 

The  sky  grew  stormy  ;  people  passed, 

All  muffled,  homeward  faring. 
"  You'll  have  to  spend  the  night  with 
me," 

I  said,  at  last,  despairing. 
I  tied  a  kerchief  round  her  neck : 

"  What  ribbon's  this,  my  blossom?" 
"Why,  don't  you  know?"  she,  smiling, 
said, 

And  drew  it  from  her  bosom. 

A  card,  with  number,  street,  and  name ! 

My  e}7es  astonished  met  it. 
"  For,"  said  the  little  one,  "  you  see 

I  might  some  time  forget  it, 
And  so  I  wear  a  little  thing 

That  tells  you  all  about  it ; 
For  mother  says  she's  very  sure 

I  should  get  lost  without  it." 

Eliza  Sproat  Turner. 


PLAY-DAI 


"S. 


09 


MY  MOTHER. 
Who  fed  me  from  her  gentle  breast, 
And  hushed  me  in  her  arms  to  rest, 
And  on  my  cheek  sweet  kisses  pressYl  ? 
My  Mother. 

When  sleep  forsook  my  open  eye, 
Who  was  it  sang  sweet  hushaby, 
And  rocked  me  that  I  should  not  ciy  ? 
My  Mother. 

Who  sat  and  watched  my  infant  head, 
When  sleeping  on  my  cradle  bed, 
And  tears  of  sweet  affection  shed  ? 
My  Mother. 

When  pain   and   sickness   made   me 

cry, 
Who  gazed  upon  my  heavy  eye, 
And  wept  for  fear  that  I  should  die  ? 
My  Mother. 

Who   dress'd  my  doll  in   clothes  so 

gay, 

And  taught  me  pretty  how  to  play, 
And  minded  all  I  had  to  say  '? 
My  Mother. 


Who  ran  to  help  me  when  I  fell, 
And  would  some  pretty  story  tell, 
Or  kiss  the  place  to  make  it  well '.' 
My  Mother. 

Who  taught  my  infant  lips  to  pray, 
And  love  God's  holy  book  and  day, 
And  walk  in  wisdom's  pleasant  way  ? 
My  Mother. 

And  can  I  ever  cease  to  be 
Affectionate  and  kind  to  thee. 
Who  wast  so  very  kind  to  me, 
My  Mother. 

Ah  no !  the  thought  I  cannot  bear. 
And  if  God  please  my  life  to  spare. 
I  hope  I  shall  reward  thy  care. 
My  Mother. 

When  thou  art  feeble,  old,  and  gray 
My  healthy  arms  shall  be  thy  stay, 
And  I  will  soothe  thy  pains  away, 
My  Mother. 


70 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


And  when  I  see  thee  hang  thy  head, 
'Twill  be  my  turn  to  watch  thy  bed, 
And  tears  of  sweet  affection  shed, 
My  Mother. 

For  God,  who  lives  above  the  skies. 
Would   look  with  vengeance   in  His 

eyes 
If  I  should  ever  dare  despise 

My  Mother. 

Jane  Taylor. 


BEAUTIFUL  GRANDMAMMA. 

Grandmamma  sits  in  her  quaint  arm- 
chair ; 

Never  was  lady  more  sweet  and  fair ; 

Her  gray  locks  ripple  like  silver 
shells, 

And  her  own  brow  its  story  tells 

Of  a  gentle  life  and  peaceful  even, 


Little  girl  May  sits  rocking  away 
In  her  own  low  seat,  like  some  win- 
some fay  ; 
Two  doll-babies  her  kisses  share, 
And  another  one  lies  by  the  side  of 

her  chair ; 
May  is  as  fair  as  the  morning  dew, 
Cheeks  of  roses,  and  ribbons  of  blue. 

"  Say,  grandmamma,"  says  the  pretty 

"elf, 
"  Tell  me  a  story  about  yourself. 
When  you  were  little,  what  did  you 

play? 
Were  you  good  or  naughty  the  whole 

long  day  ? 
Was   it  hundreds   and   hundreds   of 

years  ago  ? 
And  what   makes   your  soft  hair  as 

white  as  snow  ? 

"  Did  you  have  a  mamma  to  hug  and 

kiss  ? 
And  a  dolly  like  this,  and  this,  and 

this  ? 
Did  you  have  a  pussy  like  my  little 

Kate  ? 
Did  you  go  to  bed  when  the   clock 

struck  eight  ? 
Did  you  have  long  curls,  and  beads 

like  mine, 
And  a  new  silk   apron  with  ribbons 

fine?" 

Grandmamma    smiled    at    the    little 

maid, 
And   laying   aside   her   knitting,  she 

said  : 
"  Go  to  my  desk,  and  a  red  box  you'll 

see  ; 
Carefully  lift  it  and  bring  it  to  me." 
So  May  put  her  dollies  away,  and  ran, 


A  trust  in  God,  and  a  hope  in  heaven.  I  Saying.  "  I'll  be  careful  as  ever  I  can. 


PLAY-DAYS. 


71 


The   grandmamma   opened   the  box, 

and  lo ! 
A   beautiful    child    with    throat   like 

snow, 
Lip  just  tinted  like  pink  shells  rare, 
Eyes  of  hazel  and  golden  hair, 
Hand    all   dimpled,   and    teeth    like 

pearls, — 
Fairest  and  sweetest  of  little  girls. 

"Oh!    who    is    it?"    cried    winsome 

May  ; 
"  How  I  wish  she   were  here  to-day  ! 
Wouldn't  I  love  her  like  everything ! 
Wouldn't  I  with  her  frolic  and  sing ! 
Say,  dear  grandmamma,  wTho  can  she 

be?" 
"  Darling,"  said  grandmamma,  "  I  was 

she." 

May    looked    long    at    the    dimpled 

grace, 
And  then  at   the   saint-like,  fair  old 

face. 
•'  How  funny  !"  she  cried,  with  a  smile 

and  a  kiss, 
"  To  have  such  a  dear  little  grandma 

as  this ! 
Still,"  she  added  with  smiling  zest, 
"  I  think,  dear   grandma,  I  like  you 

best." 

So  May  climbed  on  the  silken  knee, 
And  grandmamma  told  her  history — 
What  plays  she  played,  what  toys  she 

had, 
How   at  times  she  was  naughty,  or 

good,  or  sad. 
"  But  the  best  thing  you  did."  said 

May,  "  don't  you  see? 
Was  to  grow  a  beautiful  grandma  for 

me." 

Mary  A.  Dexison". 


'  JOHNNY'S  OPINION  OF  GRANDMOTHERS 
Grandmothers  are  very  nice  folks ; 

They  beat  all  the  aunts  in  creation  ; 
They  let  a  chap  do  as  he  likes, 

And  don't  worry  about  education. 

I'm  sure  I  can't  see  it  at  all 

What  a  poor  feller  ever  could  do 

For  apples,  and  pennies,  and  cakes, 
Without  a  grandmother  or  two. 

Grandmothers  speak  softly  to  "  ma's  " 
To  let  a  boy  have  a  good  time ; 

Sometimes  they  will  whisper,  'tis  true, 
T'other  way  wThen  a  boy  wants  to 
climb. 

Grandmothers  have  muffins  for  tea. 
And  pies,  a  whole  row,  in  the  cellar, 

And  they're  apt  (if  they  know  it  in 
time") 
To  make  chicken-pies  for  a  feller. 

And  if  he  is  bad  now  and  then, 
And  makes  a  great  racketing  noise, 

They  only  look  over  their  specs 

And  say,  "  Ah,  these  boys  will  be 
boys ! 

''  Life  is  only  so  short  at  the  best : 
Let  the  children  be  happy  to-day." 

Then  they  look  for  a  while  at  the  sky. 
And  the  hills  that  are  far,  far  away. 

Quite  often,  as  twilight  comes  on. 
Grandmothers  sing  hymns  very  low 

To  themselves  as  they  rock  by  the  fire, 
About  heaven,  and  when  they  shall 

And  then  a  boy,  stopping  to  think. 

Will  find  a  hot  tear  in  his  eye, 
To  know  what  must  come  at  the  last, 

For  grandmothers  all  have  to  die. 

I  wish  they  could  stay  here  and  pray. 
For  a  boy  needs  their  prayers  ev'ry 
night — 

Some  boys  more  than  others,  I  s'pose ; 
Such  fellers  as  me  need  a  sight, 

Ethel  Lynx  Beers. 


72 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


GOLDEN  HAIR. 

Golden    Hair  climbed  upon   grand- 
papa's knee. 
Dear  little  Golden  Hair !  tired  Avas  she, 
All  the  day  busy  as  busy  could  be. 

Up  in  the  morning  as  soon  as  'twas 

light, 
Out  with  the  birds  and  the  butterflies 

bright. 
►Skipping   about   till   the    coming   of 

night. 

Grandpapa  toyed  with  the  curls  on 

her  head ; 
'"  What  has  my  baby  been  doing,"  he 

said, 
"  Since  she  arose,  with  the  sun,  from 

her  bed  ?" 

"  Pity  much,"  answered  the  sweet  lit- 
tle one  ; 

"  I  cannot  tell  so  much  things  I 
have  done — • 

Played  with  my  dolly,  and  feeded  my 
Bun. 


"  And  I  have  jumped  with  my  little 

jump-rope, 
And  I  made,  out  of  some  water  and 

soap, 
Bufitle  worlds !   mamma's  castles  of 

Hope. 

"  And  I  have  readed  in  my  picture- 
book, 
And  little  Bella  and  I  went  to  look 
For  some  smooth  stones  by  the  side 
of  the  brook. 

"  Then  I  come  home,  and  I  eated  my 

tea, 
And  I  climbed  up  to  my  grandpapa's 

knee. 
I'm  jes'  as  tired  as  tired  can  be." 

Lower    and    lower    the    little     head 

pressed 
Until   it  drooped   upon   grandpapa's 

breast ; 
Dear  little  Golden  Hair !  sweet  be  thy 

rest ! 


PLAY-DAYS. 


73 


We  are  but  children  ;  the  things  that  Then,  stepping  softly,  she  fetched  the 

we  do  •        broom 

Are  as  sports  of  a  babe  to  the  Infinite  And  swept  the  floor  and  tidied  the 

view,  room ; 

That  sees  all  our  weakness,  and  pities  Busy  and  happy  all  day  was  she, 

it  too.  Helpful   and   happy   as   child   could 

be. 
God    grant   that    when    night    over- 
shadows our  way,  "  I    love    you,   mother,"   again    they 
And  we  shall  be  called  to  account  for  said, 

our  day,  Three  little  children  going  to  bed. 

He  may  find  it  as  guileless  as  Golden    How  do  you  think  that  mother  guess- 
Hair's  play !  ed 

Which  of  them  realty  loved  her  best  ? 

Joy  Allison. 


And  oh  !  when  aweary,  may  we  be  so 

blest 
As  to  sink,  like  an  innocent  child,  to 

our  rest, 


GRANDPAPA'S  SPECTACLES. 


And  feel  ourselves  clasped  to  the  Infin-  :  Graxdpapa>s     spectacles    cannot    be 

found; 
He  has  searched  all  the  rooms,  high 

and  low,  round  and  round ; 
Now  he  calls  to  the  young  ones,  and 

what  does  he  say  ? 
"  Ten  cents  for  the  child  who  will  find 

them  to-day." 


F.    Bl'RGE   S.MrTH. 

WHICH  LOVED  BEST? 

"  I    love   you,    mother,"   said    little 

John ; 
Then,   forgetting    his   work,   his   cap 

went  on, 
And  he  was  off  to  the  garden-swing, 
And  left  her  the  water  and  wood  to 

bring. 


Then  Henry  and  Nelly  and  Edward 

all  ran, 
And   a   most  thorough   hunt  for  the 
glasses  began, 
I  love  you,  mother,"  said  rosy  Nell—  j  And  dear  little  Nell,  in  her  generous 

way, 


Said,  "  I'll    look    for  them,   grandpa, 
without  any  pay." 


'•  I   love  you  better  than  tongue  can 

tell ;" 
Then  she  teased  and  pouted  full  half 

t  n  p  H  *i  v 

,r-,i    ,  '  .-i  ••11  i       All  through  the  bis;  Bible  she  searches 

till    her   mother   rejoiced   when   she  •  &  & 

,   ,       i  with  care 

went  to  play.  !  , 

That  lies  on  the  table  by  grandpapa's 

"  I  love  you,  mother,"  said  little  Fan ;  |  chair ; 

"  To-day  I'll  help  you  all  I  can ;  They  feel  in  his  pockets,  they  peep  in 

How  glad  I  am  school  does'nt  keep !"  !  his  hat, 

So   she  rocked    the    babe   till  it   fell  I  They  pull    out  the   sofa,  they   shake 


asleep. 


out  the  mat. 


74 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


Then  down  on  all-fours,  like  two  good- 
natured  bears, 

Go  Harry  and  Ned  under  tables  and 
chairs, 

Till,  quite  out  of  breath,  Ned  is  heard 
to  declare 

He  believes  that  those  glasses  are  not 
anywhere. 

• 

But  Nelly,  who,  leaning  on  grandpapa's 
knee, 

Was  thinking  most  earnestly  Avhere 
they  could  be, 


Looked  suddenly  up  in  the  kind,  faded 

eyes, 
And  her  own  shining  brown  ones  grew 

big  with  surprise. 

She  clapped  both  her  hands — all  her 
dimples  came  out, — 

She  turned  to  the  boys  with  a  bright, 
roguish  shout : 

"  You  may  leave  off  your  looking,  both 
Harry  and  Ned, 

For  there  are  the  glasses  on  grand- 
papa's head!" 

Elizabeth  Sill. 


TRUE 

"  How  much  I  love  you,  mother  dear !" 

A  little  prattler  said  : 
"  I  love  you  in  the  morning  bright, 

And  when  I  go  to  bed. 

"  I  love  you  when  I'm  near  to  you, 

And  when  I'm  far  away  ; 
I  love  you  when  I  am  at  work, 

And  when  I  am  at  play." 

And  then  she  shyly,  sweetly  raised 
Her  lovely  eyes  of  blue : 


LOVE. 

"  I  love  you  when  you  love  me  best, 
And  when  you  scold  me,  too." 

The  mother  kissed  her  darling  child, 
And  stooped  a  tear  to  hide : 

"  My  precious  one,  I  love  you  most 
When  I  am  forced  to  chide." 

"  I  could  not  let  my  darling  child 

In  sin  and  folly  go, 
And  this  is  why  I  sometimes  chide, 

Because  I  love  you  so." 


PLAY-DAYS. 


75 


A  PICTURE. 

The  former  sat  in  his  easy-chair 

Smoking  his  pipe  of  clay, 
While   his  hale  old  wife,  with  busy 
care, 
Was  clearing  the  dinner  away  ; 
A  sweet  little  girl  with  fine  blue  eyes 
On  her  grandfather's  knee  was  catch- 
ing flies. 

The  old  man  laid  his  hand  on  her 
head, 
With  a  tear  on  his  wrinkled  face  ; 

He   thought   how   often   her   mother 
dead 
Had  sat  in  the  selfsame  place. 

As  the  tear  stole  down  from  his  half- 
shut  eye, 

"  Don't  smoke  !"  said  the  child ;  "  how 
it  makes  you  cry  !" 

The  house-dog  lay  stretched  out  on  the 
floor, 
"Where  the  shade  after  noon  used  to 
steal ; 
The  busy  old  wife,  by  the  open  door, 

Was  turning  the  spinning-wheel ; 
And  the  old  brass  clock  on  the  mantel- 
tree 
Had  plodded  along  to  almost  three. 

Still  the  farmer  sat  in  his  easy-chair, 
While  close  to  his  heaving  breast 

The  moistened  brow  and  the  cheek  so 
fair 
Of     his     sweet     grandchild     were 
pressed ; 

His  head,  bent  down,  on  her  soft  hair 
lay: 

Fast  asleep  were  they  both  that  sum- 
mer day ! 

Charles  G.  Eastman. 


WE  ARE  SEVEN. 
A  simple  child, 
That  lightly  draws  its  breath, 
And  feels  its  life  in  every  limb, 
What  should  it  know  of  death  ? 

I  met  a  little  cottage-girl : 

She  was  eight  years  old,  she  said  ; 
Her  hair  was  thick  with  many  a  curl 

That  clustered  round  her  head. 

She  had  a  rustic,  woodland  air, 

And  she  was  wildly  clad ; 
Her  eyes  were  fair,  and  very  fair ; 

Her  beauty  made  me  glad. 

"  Sisters  and  brothers,  little  maid, 
How  many  may  }rou  be  ?" 

"  How  many?   Seven  in  all,"  she  said, 
And  wondering  looked  at  me. 

"And  where  are  they?     I  pray  you 
tell." 

She  answered,  "  Seven  are  we  ; 
And  two  of  us  at  Conway  dwell, 

And  two  are  gone  to  sea. 

"  Two  of  us  in  the  churchyard  lie, 
My  sister  and  my  brother, 

And  in  the  churchyard  cottage  I 
Dwell  near  them  with  my -mother." 

"  You  say  that  two  at  Conway  dwell. 

And  two  are  gone  to  sea, 
Yet  ye  are  seven !     I  pray  you  tell, 

Sweet  maid,  how  this  may  be  ?" 

Then  did  the  little  maid  reply  : 
"  Seven  boys  and  girls  are  we ; 

Two  of  us  in  the  churchyard  lie. 
Beneath  the  churchyard  tree." 


'6 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


"  You  run  about,  my  little  maid, 
Your  limbs  they  are  alive ; 

If  two  are  in  the  churchyard  laid, 
Then  ye  are  only  five." 

L"  Their  graves  are  green,  they  may  be 
seen," 
The  little  maid  replied, 
"'  Twelve  steps  or  more  from  my  moth- 
er's door, 
And  they  are  side  by  side. 

"  My  stockings  there  I  often  knit, 

My  kerchief  there  I  hem, 
And  there  upon  the  ground  I  sit— 

I  sit  and  sing  to  them. 

"And  often  after  sunset,  sir, 

When  it  is  light  and  fair, 
I  take  my  little  porringer, 

And  eat  my  supper  there. 

"  The  first  that  died  was  little  Jane ; 

Tn  bed  she  moaning  lay, 
Till  God  released  her  of  her  pain, 

And  then  she  went  away. , 

"  So  in  the  churchyard  she  was  laid, 
And  when  the  grass  was  dry 

Together  round  her  grave  we  played, 
My  brother  John  and  I. 

"And  when  the  ground  was  white  with 
snow, 

And  I  could  run  and  slide, 
My  brother  John  was  forced  to  go, 

And  he  lies  by  her  side." 

*:  How  many  are  you,  then,"  said  I, 
''If  they  two  are  in  heaven?" 

The  little  maiden  did  reply, 
"  Oh,  master,  we  are  seven." 


"  But  they  are  dead — those  two  are 
dead, 

Their  spirits  are  in  heaven." 
'Twas  throwing  words  away,  for  still 
The  little  maid  would  have  her  will, 

And  said,  "  Nay,  we  are  seven." 

William  Woudswobth. 


SEVEN  TIMES  ONE. 

EXULTATION. 

There's  no  dew  left  on  the  daisies  and 
clover, 
There's  no  rain  left  in  heaven  : 
I've  said  my  "  seven  times  "  over  and 
over  ; 
Seven  times  one  are  seven. 

I  am  old,  so  old,  I  can  write  a  letter ; 

My  birthday  lessons  are  done ; 
The  lambs  play  always,  they  know  no 
better ; 

They  are  only  one  times  one. 

0  moon  !  in  the  night  I  have  seen  you 

sailing 
And  shining  so  round  and  low ; 
You  were  bright !  ah  bright !  but  your 
light  is  failing, — 
You  are  nothing  now  but  a  bow. 

You  moon,  have  you  done  something 
wrong  in  heaven, 
That  God  has  hidden  your  face  ? 

1  hope  if  you  have  you  will  soon  be 

forgiven, 
And  shine  again  in  your  place. 

0  velvet  bee,  you're  a  dusty  fellow, 
You've    powder'd    your   legs   with 
gold ! 
0  brave   marshmary  buds,  rich    and 
yellow, 
Give  me  your  money  to  hold  ! 


PLAY-DAYS. 


77 


0  columbine,  open  your  folded  wrap-    Well — tell  !     Where  should  I  fly  to, 


per, 
Where  two  twin  turtle-doves  dwell ! 
0    euckoopint,    toll    me    the   purple 

clapper 
That  hangs  in  your  clear  green  bell ! 


And    show   me   your   nest    with    the 
young  ones  in  it ; 
I  will  not  steal  them  awa}- ; 
I  am  old !  you  may  trust  me,  linnet, 
linnet, — 
I  am  seven  times  one  to-day 

Jean  Lxuelow. 


WISHING. 

Ring-ting  !      I  wish  I  were  a  Prim- 
rose, 
A  bright  yellow  Primrose,  blowing  in 
the  spring ! 
The  stooping  boughs  above  me, 
The  wandering  bee  to  love  me. 
The  fern  and  moss  to  creep  across. 
And  the  Elm  tree  for  our  king ! 

Nay — stay  !  I  wish  I  were  an  Elm  tree, 

A  great,  lofty   Elm  tree,  with    green 

leaves  gay  ! 

The  winds  would  set  them  dancing, 

Tb.e  sun  and  moonshine  glance  in, 

The  birds  would  house  among  the 

boughs,    I 
And  sweetly  sing. 

Oh  no !     I  wish  I  were  a  Robin, 
A  Robin  or  a  little  Wren,  everywhere 
to  go ; 

Through  forest,  field,  or  garden. 

And  ask  no  leave  or  pardon, 

Till  winter  comes  with  icy  thumbs 

To  ruffle  up  our  wing  ! 


Where  go  to  sleep  in  the  dark  wood 
or  dell  ? 
Before  a  day  was  over, 
Home  comes  the  rover, 
For  mother's  kiss — sweeter  this 
Than  any  other  thing. 

William  Allinoham. 


CASTLES  IN  THE  AIR. 

The  bonnie,  bonnie  bairn,  who  sits 
poking  in  the  ase, 

Glowering  in  the  fire  with  his  wee 
round  face  ; 

Laughing  at  the  fuffin*  lowe.  what 
sees  he  there  ? 

Ha  !  the  young  dreamer's  bigging  cas- 
tles in  the  air. 

His  wee  chubby  face  and  his  touzie 
curly  pow 

Are  laughing  and  nodding  to  the"  dan- 
cing lowe ; 


78 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


He'll  brown  his  rosy  cheeks,  and  singe 
his  sunny  hair, 

Glowering  at  the  imps  with  their  cas- 
tles in  the  air. 


He  sees  muckle  castles  towering  to  the 

moon ! 
He  sees  little  sogers  pu'ing  them  a' 

doun ! 
Worlds    whombling    up    and    down, 

bleezing  wi'  a  flare, 
See  how  he  loups  as  they  glimmer  in 

.the  air. 
For  a'  sae  sage  he  looks,  what  can  the 

laddie  ken  ? 
He's   thinking    upon    naething,   like 

mony  mighty  men, 
A  wee  thing  maks  us  think,  a  sma' 

thing  maks  us  stare  ; 
There  are  mair  folk  than  him  bigging 

castles  in  the  air. 


Sic  a  night  in  winter  may  weel  mak 
him  cauld ; 

His  chin  upon  his  buffy  hand  will 
soon  mak  him  auld  ; 

His  brow  is  brent  sae  braid,  oh,  pray 
that  daddy  Care 

Would  let  the  wean  alane  wi'  his  cas- 
tles in  the  air. 

He'll  glower  at  the  fire !  and  he'll 
keek  at  the  light ! 

But  mony  sparkling  stars  are  swal- 
lowed up  by  night; 

Aulder  e'en  than  his  are  glamoured 
by  a  glare, 

Hearts  are  broken,  heads  are  turned, 
wi'  castles  in  the  air. 

James  Ballantyne. 


A  LITTLE  STORY. 

Oh,  the  book  is  a  beauty,  my  darling. 

The  pictures  are  all  very  fine, 
But  it's  time  you  were  soundly  sleep- 
in  o- 

For  the  little  hand  points  to  nine ; 
So,  here's  a  good-night — but  give  me 

A  dozen  of  kisses  or  more, 
To  make  me  forget  what  vexed  me 

To-day  in  the  dull  old  store. 

Can't  go  till  I  tell  you  a  story  ? 

Well,  a  long,  long  time  ago, 
When  I  was  a  little  wee  fellow — 

No  bigger  than  you,  you  know — 
When  I  hadn't  a  nurse  as  you  have. 

And  my  papa  was  gone  for  goods, 
I  ran  away  from  my  mamma, 

And  got  lost  in  the  big  pine  woods. 

I'll  tell  you  just  how  it  happened  : 

I  was  hunting  for  eggs,  you  see, 
And  all  over  the  house  and  the  garden 

My  mamma  was  hunting  for  me ; 
Hunting  and  calling,  "Oh,  Willie ! 

Ho !    Willie !    where   are   you,   my 
son  ?" 
And    I    heard   her   and    hid    in   the 
bushes, 

And  thought  it  the  jolliest  of  fun. 

Naughty  ?     Ah  !   Robin  !  I  know  it. 

But  I  didn't  think  of  it  then  ; 
I  laughed  and  said,  "  I'm  a  robber, 

And  this  is  my  dear  little  den. 
I'd  like  to  see  any  one  take  me. 

I  reckon— Oh  ho !  what's  that  ?" 
And  away  I  went  after  a  squirrel 

As  round  and  as  black  as  my  hat. 

No;  I  didn't  forget  1113^  dear  mamma. 
But  "  boys  will  be  boys,"  I  said  ; 


PLAY-DAYS. 


79 


And  I  kept  a  good  eye  on  squirrel, 

And  followed  wherever  he  led, 
Over  briers,  and  bogs,  and  bushes, 

Till,  the  night  fell  blackly  about, 
And  I  found  I  was  far  in  the  forest, 

And  didn't  know  how  to  get  out. 

What  became  of  the  squirrel?  why, 
Robin  ! 

To  be  thinking  of  him,  and  not  me ! 
"When  I  hadn't  a  thing  for  my  pillow 

That  night,  but  the  root  of  a  tree— 
With  a  bit  of  soft  moss  for  its  cover — 

And  never  a  star  overhead  ; 
Oh,  oh,  how  I  cried  for  my  mother, 

Till  I   slept,   and   dreamed   I   was 
dead. 

I  awoke  in  my  own  little  chamber.; 

My  papa  was  holding  my  hand, 
And  my  mamma  was    crying  beside 
me; 
I  couldn't  at  first  understand 
Just  what  it   all  meant — when  they 
told  me 
I  wasn't  to  stir  or  to  speak, 
For  I  was  half  dead  when  they  found 
me, 
And  had  been  very  sick  for  a  week. 

But    I    pretty   soon   thought    of   the 
squirrel. 
And   the   bushes    and  briers  ;    and 
then — 
"  Oh,   mamma,  forgive  me,"  I  whis- 
pered, 
"  For  hiding  away  in  a  den  !"' 
li  Hush,  hush  !  my  poor  darling !"  she 
answered  ; 
And  I  turned  my  face  to  the  wall, 
Crying  softly,  because  I  was  sorry. 
Now  kiss  me  good-night.     That  is 
all. 

Hester  A.  Benedict. 


LET  DOGS  DELIGHT  TO  BARK  AND 
BITE. 

Let  dogs  delight  to  bark  and  bite. 

For  God  hath  made  them  so  ; 
Let  bears  and  lions  growl  and  fight, 

For  'tis  their  nature  too  ; 

But,  children,  you  should  never  let 

Such  angry  passions  rise ; 
Your  little  hands  were  never  made 

To  tear  each  other's  eyes. 

Let  love  through  all  your  actions  run. 

And  all  your  words  be  mild  ; 
Live  like  the  blessed  Virgin's  Son. 

That  sweet  and  lovely  Child. 

His  soul  was  gentle  as  a  lamb ; 

And,  as  his  stature  grew, 
He  grew  in  favor  both  with  man 

And  God  his  Father  too. 


80 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


Now,  Lord  of  all,  he  reigns  above, 
And  from  his  heavenly  throne 

He  sees  what  children  dwell  in  love, 
And  marks  them  for  his  own. 

Isaac  Watts. 

GOING  INTO  BREECHES. 

Joy  to  Philip  !  he  this  day 
Has  his  long  coats'  cast  away, 
And  (the  childish  season  gone) 
Puts  the  manly  breeches  on. 
Officer  on  gay  parade, 
Eed-coat  in  his  first  cockade, 
Bridegroom  in  his  wedding  trim, 
Birthday  beau  surpassing  him, 
Never  did  with  conscious  gait 
Strut  about  in  half  the  state, 
Or  the  pride  (yet  free  from  sin), 
Of  my  little  manikin  : 
Never  was  there  pride,  or  bliss, 
Half  so  rational  as  his. 
Sashes,  frocks,  to  those  that  need  'em- 
Philip's  limbs  have  got  their  freedom. 
He  can  run,  or  he  can  ride, 
And  do  twenty  things  beside, 
Which  his  petticoats  forbade  ; 
Is  he  not  a  happy  lad  ? 
Now  he's  under  other  banners, 
He  must  leave  his  former  manners, 
Bid  adieu  to  female  games. 
And  forget  their  very  names — 
Puss-in-corners,  hide-and-seek, 
Sports  for  girls  and  punies  weak  \ 
Baste-the-bear  he  now  may  play  at ; 
Leap-frog,  foot-ball  sport  away  at ; 
Show  his  strength  and  skill  at  cricket, 
Mark  his  distance,  pitch  his  wicket ; 
Run  about  in  winter's  snow 
Till  his  cheeks  and  fingers  glow ; 
Climb  a  tree,  or  scale  a  wall, 
Without  any  fear  to  fall. 


If  he  get  a  hurt  or  bruise, 
To  complain  he  must  refuse, 
Though  the  anguish  and  the  smart 
Go  unto  his  little  heart. 
He  must  have  his  courage  ready, 
Keep  his  voice  and  visage  steady, 
Brace  his  eyeballs  stiff  as  drum, 
That  a  tear  may  never  come  ; 
And  his  grief  must  only  speak 
From  the  color  in  his  cheek. 
This  and  more  he  must  endure — 
Hero  he  in  miniature ! 
This  and  more  must  now  be  done, 
Now  the  breeches  are  put  on. 

Mary  Lamb. 

THE  PIPER. 

Piping  down  the  valleys  wild. 
Piping  songs  of  pleasant  glee, 

On  a  cloud  I  saw  a  child, 
And  he  laughing  said  to  me : 

"  Pipe  a  song  about  a  lamb  !" 
So  I  piped  with  merry  cheer. 

"  Piper,  pipe  that  song  again ;" 
So  I  piped ;  he  wept  to  hear. 

"  Drop  thy  pipe,  thy  happy  pipe ; 
Sing  thy  songs  of  happy  cheer !" 
So  I  sang  the  same  again, 

While  he  wept  with  joy  to  hear. 

"  Piper,  sit  thee  down  and  write 
In  a  book,  that  all  may  read." 
So  he  vanished  from  my  sight ; 
And  I  plucked  a  hollow  reed, 

And  I  made  a  rural  pen, 

And  I  stained  the  Avater  clear, 

And  I  wrote  my  happy  songs 
Every  child  may  joy  to  hear. 

William  Blake. 


LESSO'NS  OF   LIFE. 


Lessons  of  Life. 


A  GOOD  NAME. 

Children,  choose  it, 

Don't  refuse  it ; 
'Tis  a  precious  diadem  ; 

Highly  prize  it, 

Don't  despise  it ; 
You  will  need  it  when  you're  men. 

Love  and  cherish, 

Keep  and  nourish ; 
'Tis  more  precious  far  than  gold ; 

Watch  and  guard  it, 

Don't  discard  it ; 
You  will  need  it  when  you're  old. 

FIVE  THINGS. 
If  Wisdom's  ways  you  wisely  seek, 

Five  things  observe  with  care  : 
To  whom  you  speak,  of  whom  }-ou 
speak, 
And  how,  and  when,  and  where. 

TRUTH. 

Boy,  at  all  times  tell  the  truth, 
Let  no  lie  defile  thy  mouth  ; 
If  thou'rt  wrong,  be  still  the  same — 
Speak  the  truth  and  bear  the  blame. 

Truth  is  honest,  truth  is  sure ; 
Truth  is  strong,  and  must  endure ; 
Falsehood  lasts  a  single  day, 
Then  it  vanishes  away. 


Boy,  at  all  times  tell  the  truth, 
Let  no  lie  defile  thy  mouth  ; 
Truth  is  steadfast,  sure,  and  fast — 
Certain  to  prevail  at  last. 

THE  NINE  PARTS   OF  SPEECH. 

Three  little  words  we  often  see — 
An  Article,  a,  an,  and  the. 

A  Noun's  the  name  of  anything, 
As,  school  or  garden,  hoop  or  swing. 

Adjectives  tell  the  kind  of  noun. 
As,  great,  small,  pretty,  white,  or  brown. 

Instead  of  nouns  the  Pronouns  stand — 
John's  head,  his  face,  my   arm,   your 
hand. 

Verbs  tell  of  something  being  done — 
To  read,  ivrite,  count,  sing,  jump,  01  run. 

How  things  are  done  the  Adverbs  tell, 
As,  sloicly,  quickly,  ill,  or  well. 

A  Preposition  stands  before 

A  noun,  as,  in  or  through  a  door. 

Conjunctions  join  the  nouns  together. 
As,  men  and  children,  wind  or  weather. 

The  Interjection  shows  surprise, 
As,  Oh,  how  pretty  !     Ah,  how  wise  ! 

J.  Xeale. 

83 


84 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


Two  ears  and  only  one  mouth  have  you  ; 

The  reason,  I  think,  is  clear : 
It  teaches,  my  child,  that  it  will  not  do 

To  talk  about  all  you  hear. 

Two  eyes  and  only  one  mouth  have  you  ; 

The  reason  of  this  must  be, 
That  you  should  learn  that  it  will  not  do 

To  talk  about  all  you  see. 

Two  hands  and  only  one  mouth  have  you, 
And  it  is  worth  while  repeating  : 

The  two  are  for  work  you  will  have  to  do — 
The  one  is  enough  for  eating. 


A  GOOD  RULE. 

'Tis  well  to  walk  with  a  cheerful  heart 

Wherever  our  fortunes  call, 
With  a  friendly  glance  and  an  open  hand , 

And  a  gentle  word  for  all.  ^/ 

Since  life  is  a  thorny  and  difficult  path, 
Where  toil  is  the  portion  of  man, 

We  all  should  endeavor,  while  passing  along, 
To  make  it  as  smooth  as  we  can. 


LESSONS    OF   LLFE. 


85 


TRY,  TRY  AGAIN. 

Here's  a  lesson  all  should  heed — 
Try,  try,  try  again. 

If  at  first  you  don't  succeed, 

Try,  try,  try  again. 

Let  your  courage  well  appear ; 

If  you  only  persevere 

You  will  conquer,  never  fear  ; 

Try,  try,  try  again. 

Twice  or  thrice  though  you  should  fail. 

Try  again. 
If  at  last  you  would  prevail. 

Try  again. 
When  you  strive,  there's  no  disgrace 
Though  you  fail  to  win  the  race ; 
Bravely,  then,  in  such  a  case, 

Try,  try,  try  again. 

Let  the  thing  be  e'er  so  hard. 

Try  again. 
Time  will  surely  bring  reward  ; 

Trv  a  sain. 


That  which  other  folks  can  do 
Why,  with  patience,  may  not  you  ? 
Why,  with  'patience,  may  not  you? 

Trv,  try,  try  again. 


THE  POWER  OF  LITTLES. 
Great  events,  we  often  find, 

On  little  things  depend, 
And  very  small  beginnings 

Have  oft  a  mighty  end. 

Letters  joined  make  words. 
And  words  to  books  may  grow. 

As  flake  on  flake  descending 
Forms  an  avalanche  of  snow. 

A  single  utterance  may  good 
Or  evil  thought  inspire  ; 

One  little  spark  enkindled 
May  set  a  town  on  fire. 

What  volumes  may  be  written 
With  little  drops  of  ink ! 


86 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF    POETRY. 


How  small  a  leak,  unnoticed, 
A  mighty  ship  will  sink ! 

A  tiny  insect's  labor 

Makes  the  coral  strand, 
And  mighty  seas  are  girdled 

With  grains  of  golden  sand. 

A  daily  penny,  saved, 

A  fortune  may  begin ; 
A  daily  penny,  squandered, 

May  lead  to  vice  and  sin. 

Our  life  is  made  entirely 

Of  moments  multiplied, 
As  little  streamlets,  joining, 

Form  the  ocean's  tide. 

Our  hours  and  days,  our  months  and 
years, 

Are  in  small  moments  given  : 
They  constitute  our  time  below — 

Eternity  in  heaven. 

LITTLE  THINGS. 

Little  drops  of  water, 

Little  grains  of  sand, 
Make  the  mighty  ocean 

And  the  pleasant  land. 

Thus  the  little  minutes, 
Humble  though  they  be, 

Make  the  mighty  ages 
Of  eternity. 

So  our  little  errors 

Lead  the  soul  away 
From  the  path  of  virtue, 

Oft  in  sin  to  stray. 

Little  deeds  of  kindness, 

Little  words  of  love, 
Make  our  earth  an  Eden, 

Like  the  heaven  above. 

Brewek. 


LITTLE  BY  LITTLE. 

While  the  new  years  come  and  the 

old  years  go, 
How,  little  by  little,  all  things  grow ! 
All  things  grow,  and  all  decay — 
Little  by  little  passing  away. 
Little  by  little,  on  fertile  plain, 
Ripen  the  harvests  of  golden  grain, 
Waving  and  flashing  in  the  sun 
When  the  summer  at  last  is  done. 

Low  on  the  ground  an  acorn  lies — 
Little  by  little  it  mounts  the  skies, 
Shadow   and    shelter    for   wandering 

herds, 
Home  for  a  hundred  singing  birds. 
Little  by  little  the  great  rocks  grew 
Long,  long  ago,  when  the  world  was 

new; 
Slowly  and  silently,  stately  and  free. 
Cities  of  coral  under  the  sea 
Little  by  little  are  builded,  while  so 
The  new  years  come  and  the  old  years 

go. 

Little  by  little  all  tasks  are  done ; 

So   are   the    crowns    of   the    faithful 

won, 
So  is  heaven  in  our  hearts  begun. 
With  work  and  with  weeping,  with 

laughter  and  play, 
Little  by  little,  the  longest  day 
And  the  longest  life  are  passing  away — 
Passing  without  return,  while  so 
The  new  years  come  and  the  old  years 

go. 

Luella  Clark. 


BE  POLITE. 

Good  boys  and  girls  should  never  say 
"I will?  and,  "  Give  me  these:" 

Oh  no ;  that  never  is  the  way, 
But,  "  Mother,  if  you  please." 


LESSONS    OF   LIFE. 


And  "If  you  please"  to  sister  Ann, 
Good  boys  to  say  are  ready  ; 

And  "  Yes,  sir"  to  a  gentleman, 
And  "  Yes,  ma'am"  to  a  lady. 


Why  did  you  loiter  so  long  by  the 

way  ? 
All  of  the  classes  are  formed  for  the 

day ; 
Hurry  and  pick  up  definer  and  slate — 
Room  at  the  foot  for  the  scholar  that's 

late. 


THE  MINUTES. 
We  are  but  minutes — little  things, 

Each  one  furnished  with  sixty  wings,  Five  minutes   latej  and  the  table  is 

With   which  we   fly  on   our   unseen  spread 

track,  The  children  are  seated,  and  grace  has 

And  not  a  minute  ever  comes  back.  been  said  ■ 

Even    the    baby,   all   sparkling    and 

We  are   but  minutes — yet  each  one  rosy 

bears  Sits  in  her  high  chair,  by  mamma,  so 

A  little  burden  of  joys  and  cares.  cozv  ! 

Patiently  take  the  minutes  of  pain—  Five  minutes  late,  and  your  hair  all 

The  worst  of  minutes  cannot  remain.  askew 

Just  as  the  comb  was  drawn  hastilv 


We  are  but  minutes — when  we  bring 


through 


A  few  of  the  drops  from  pleasure's    There  are  your  chair  and  your  tumbler 


?prmg, 


and  plate- 


Taste  their  sweetness  while  we  star —    Cold  cheer  for  those  who  are  five  min- 


It  takes  but  a  minute  to  fly  away. 


utes  late. 


We  are  but  minutes-use  us  well,  Fiye  minutes  late  on  this  brignt  Sab. 

For  how  we  are  used  we  must  one  day  bath  morn  ! 


All  the  good  people  to  meeting  have 


tell: 

Who  uses  minutes  has  hours  to  use- 

Who  loses  minutes  whole  vears  must    ^r  i  .n  i 

\oll   cannot    near  the   sweet  gospel 

lose. 


gone  ; 


ONLY  FIVE  MINUTES. 


message, 
As  your  boots  noisily  creak  in  the  pas 

sage. 


-r,  ,   ,  t  xi         i      t   •      People    and    minister    look    at    vour 

h  ive  minutes  late,  and  the  school  is  r 


begun ; 
What  are  rules  for,  if  you  break  everv 


one  t 


pew. 

Little  surprised  when  they  see  it  is 

you. 

Tll  ,"   "Vi         I,  ,  j         -,     Ah!  when  you  stand  at  the  Beautiful 

•Just  as  the  scholars  are  seated  and  „ 

.  .  Gate, 

quiet,  „„  .,'  . 

v„„   u,  •        -o.i     t  .     i  i     >>  hat  will  vou  do  if  vou  re  five  mm- 

lou  hurry  in  with  disturbance  and  ,  f  „ 

•  ,  utes  late  ? 

riot-  Mrs.  M.  L.  Rayxe. 


88 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


DEEDS  OF  KINDNESS. 

Suppose  the  little  cowslip 

Should  hang  its  little  cup 
And  say,  "  I'm  such  a  tiny  flower. 

I'd  better  not  grow  up." 
How  many  a  wreary  traveller 

Would  miss  its  fragrant  smell ! 
How  many  a  little  child  would  grieve 

To  lose  it  from  the  dell ! 

Suppose  the  glistening  dewdrops 

Upon  the  grass  should  say, 
"  "What  can  a  little  dewdrop  do? 

I'd  better  roll  away." 
The  blade  on  which  it  rested. 

Before  the  day  was  done, 
Without  a  drop  to  moisten  it. 

Would  wither  in  the  sun. 

Suppose  the  little  breezes. 

Upon  a  summer's  day, 
Should  think  themselves  too  small  to 
cool 

The  traveller  on  his  way ; 


Who  would  not  miss  the  smallest 
And  softest  ones  that  blow, 

And   think  they  made  a  great  mis- 
take 
If  they  were  talking  so  ? 

How  many  deeds  of  kindness 

A  little  child  may  do, 
Although  it  has  so  little  strength, 

And  little  wisdom  too ! 
It  needs  a  loving  spirit, 

Much  more  than  strength,  to  prove, 
How  many  things  a  child  may  do 

For  others  by  its  love. 

ONE  THING  AT  A  TIME. 

Work  while  you  work, 

Play  while  you  play  ; 
That  is  the  way 

To  be  cheerful  and  gay. 

All  that  you  do, 

Do  with  your  might ; 
Things  done  by  halves 

Are  never  done  right. 


LESSONS    OF   LIFE. 


89 


One  thing  each  time, 

And  that  done  well, 
Is  a  very  good  rule, 

As  many  can  tell. 

Moments  are  useless 

Trifled  away ; 
So  work  while  you  work, 

And  play  while  you  play. 

M.  A.  Stodart. 


LITTLE    MARIAN'S    PILGRIMAGE. 

In  a  large  house,  with  two  kind  aunts, 

The  little  Marian  dwelt, 
And  a  happy  child  she  was.  I  ween, 

For  though  at  times  she  felt 

That  playmates  would  be  better  far 
Than  either  birds  or  flowers, 

Yet  with  kind  aunts  and  story-books 
She  passed  fewT  lonely  hours. 

Her  favorite  haunt  in  summer-time 
Was  a  large  old  apple  tree, 

And  oft  amid  its  boughs  she  sat, 
With  her  pet  book  on  her  knee. 

The  "  Pilgrim's  Progress  "  it  was  called, 
And  Marian  loved  it  much  ; 

It  is  indeed  a  wondrous  book : 
There  are  not  many  such. 

She  read  it  in  her  little  bed, 

And  by  the  winter  fire, 
And  in  the  large  old  apple  tree, 

As  if  she  ne'er  would  tire. 

But,  unexplained,  'tis  just  the  book 

To  puzzle  a  young  brain, 
And    this   poor   child   had   no    kind 
friend 

Its  meaning  to  explain. 


Fur  though  her  aunts  were  very  kind, 

They  were  not  very  wise  ; 
They  only  said,  "  Don't  read  so,  child. 

For  sure  you'll  hurt  your  eyes." 

But  Marian  still  went  reading  on  ; 

And  visions  strange  and  wild 
Began  to  fill  the  little  head 

Of  the  lonely,  dreaming  child. 

For  she  thought  that   Christian  and 
his  wife, 

And  all  his  children  too, 
Had  left  behind  their  pleasant  home ; 

And  so  she  too  must  do. 

"  I'll  take  my  Bible,"  said  the  child, 
"  And  seek  the  road  to  heaven  ; 

I'll  try  to  find  the  wicket-gate, 
And  have  my  sins  forgiven. 

"  I  wish  m}r  aunts  would  go  with  me, 

But  'tis  in  vain  to  ask ; 
They  are  so  old  and  deaf  and  lame, 

They'd  think  it  quite  a  task. 

"  No  !  I  must  go  alone,  I  see ; 

And  I'll  not  let  them  know, 
Or,  like  poor  Christian's  friends,  they  11 
say, 

'  My  dear,  you  must  not  go.' 

"  But  I  must  wait  till  some  great  thing- 
Shall  all  their  thoughts  engage, 

And  then  I'll  leave  my  pleasant  home. 
And  go  on  pilgrimage." 

She  had  not  waited  long  before, 

One  fine,  autumnal  day, 
She  saw  the  large  old  coach  arrive 

To  take  her  aunts  away. 

"  We're  going  out  to  spend  the  day," 

The  two  old  ladies  said  ; 
"  We  mean  to  visit  Mrs.  Blair  : 

She's  verv  sick  in  bed. 


90 


THE    CHILDREN'S    BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


"  But,  Marian,  you  must  stay  at  home,  I 

And  happy  you  will  be, 
To  have  your  book  and  dinner  too 

In  the  large  old  apple  tree. 

"  And  in  the  garden  you  may  play 
While  you  can  be  content." 

A  few  more  parting  words  were  said, 
And  off  the  aunties  went. 

The  servants,  too,  were  now  engaged. 

"  The  da}'  is  come  at  last," 
Said  Marian ;  "  but  oh  !  how  I  wish 

My  pilgrimage  were  past !" 

Kneeling  beneath  her  apple  tree, 
For  God's  kind  help  she  prayed ; 

Then,  with  her  basket  in  her  hand, 
Went  forth  the  little  maid. 

Behind  the  house  where  Marian  dwelt, 
At  a^long,  long  distance,  lay 

A  high,  steep  hill,  which  morning  suns 
Tinged  with  their  earliest  ray. 

That  "  Difficulty  "  was  its  name 
The  child  had  often  thought, 

And  toward  that  hill  she  turned  her 
head, 
With  hopeful  visions  fraught 

All  Nature  seemed  to  welcome  her 
In  that  bright  autumnal  morn  ; 

The  joyous  lark  sang  merrily 
Above  the  waving  corn. 

"  Ah!  little  lark,  you  sing,"  she  said, 
"  On  your  early  pilgrimage ; 

I  too  will  sing,  for  pleasant  thoughts 
Shall  now  my  mind  engage." 

In   sweet,  clear   strains    she  sang   a 
hymn, 
Then  tripped  along  her  way, 


Till  to  a  miry  pool  she  came 

Through  which  her  pathway  lay. 

"  This  is  the  '  Slough  Despond,'  "  she 
cried ; 

And,  bravely  venturing  through, 
She  safely  reached  the  other  side, 

Leaving  behind  a  shoe. 

On   a   moss-clad    stone    she   sat  her 
down 

And  ate  some  fruit  and  bread ; 
Then  took  her  little  Bible  out, 

And  a  cheering  Psalm  she  read. 

Now  with  fresh  hope  she  wandered 
on 

For  many  miles  away, 
And  reached  the  bottom  of  the  hill 

Before  the  close  of  day. 

She  clambered  up  the  steep  ascent, 
Though  faint  and  weary  too, 

But  firmly  did  our  Marian  keep 
Her  purpose  still  in  view. 

"  I'm  glad  to  find  the  Arbor's  gone," 

Said  the  little  tired  soul ; 
"  I'm   sure   I   should    have   laid  me 
down, 

And,  maybe,  lost  my  roll." 

On  the   high   hill-top   she  stands   at 
last, 

And  our  weary  pilgrim  sees 
A  porter's  lodge  of  ample  size, 

Half  hid  by  sheltering  trees. 

She  clapped  her  hands  with  joy,  and 
cried, 

"  Oh !  there's  the  '  Wicket-Gate  !' 
And  I  must  seek  admittance  now, 

Before  it  is  too  late." 


LESSONS    OF   LIFE. 


91 


Gently  she  knocks:  'tis  answered  soon, 

And  at  the  open  door 
Stands  a  tall  man.     Poor  Marian  felt 

As  she  never  felt  before. 

With  tearful  eyes  and  trembling  heart, 
Flushed  cheek  and  anxious  brow, 

She  said,  "  I  hope  you're  Watchful,  sir ; 
I  want  Discretion  now." 

"  Oh  yes,  I'm  watchful,"  said  the  man, 

"  As  a  porter  ought  to  be ; 
I  fear  you've  lost  your  way,  young 
miss ; 

You've  lost  your  shoe,  I  see." 

"  Mistress,"  cried  he  to  his  wife  with- 
in, 

"  Here's  a  queer  child  at  our  door; 
You'll  never  see  the  like  again, 

If  you  live  to  be  fourscore. 

"  She  wants  discretion,  as  she  says  ; 

And  indeed  I  think  'tis  so, 
Though  I  know  of  some  who  want  it 
more, 

And  seek  it  less,  I  trow." 

"  Go  to  the  Hall,"  his  wife  replied, 
"  And  take  the  child  with  you  ; 

The  ladies  there  are  all  so  wise, 
They'll  soon  know  what  to  do." 

The  man  complied,  and  led  the  child 
Through  many  a  flowery  glade. 

'"  Is  that  the  Palace  Beautiful  f 
The  little  wanderer  said. 

"There,  to  the  left,  among  the  trees? 

Why,  miss,  'tis  very  grand ; 
Call  it  a  palace,  if  you  please ; 

'Tis  the  finest  in  the  land. 


"  But  here  we  are  at  the  grand   old 
porch 

And  the  famous  marble  hall ; 
Here,  little  lady,  you  must  wait, 

While  I  the  servants  call." 

With  heavy  heart  he  left  the  child. 

But  quickly  reappeared. 
And  with  him  came  a  lady  too, 

And  Marian's  heart  was  cheered. 

"  My  little  girl,"  the  lady  said, 

In  accents  soft  and  kind, 
"  I'm   sure  you  need  your  limbs  to 
rest, 

And  rest  you  soon  shall  find." 

To  a  room  where  three  young  ladies 
sat 

The  child  was  quickly  led ; 
''  Piety,  Prudence,  Charity" 

To  herself  she  softly  said. 

"  What  is  your  name,  my  little  dear?" 
Said  the  eldest  of  the  three, 

Whom  Marian,  in  her  secret  thought. 
Had  marked  for  Piety. 

"  We'll  send  a  servant  to  your  friends, 
And  tell  them  you  are  here  ; 

Your  absence  from  your  happy  home 
Will  fill  their  hearts  with  fear." 

Around  her  bright  and  lovely  face 
Fell  waves  of  auburn  hair, 

And  modestly  she  told  her  name. 
With  whom  she  lived,  and  where. 

"  How  did   vou   lose  your  way.  my 
love?" 

She  gently  raised  her  head, 
"  I  do  not  think  I've  lost  my  way," 

The  little  Pilgrim  said. 


92 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


'-  This  is  the  Palace  Beautiful ; 

May  I  stay  here  to-night?" 
They  smiled  and  said,  "  We're  glad 
our  home 

Is  pleasant  in  your  sight. 

"  Yes,  gladly  we  will  lodge  you  here, 
For  many  nights  to  come." 

"  Thank  you,"  she  said,  "  but  I  must 
soon 
Go  toward  my  heavenly  home. 

"  The  Valley  of  the  Shade  of  Death 
Is  near  your  house,  I  know." 

Surprised,  she  saw  her  artless  words 
Had  caused  their  tears  to  flow. 


"  And  I  will  see  your  Armory, 
When  you  have  time  to  spare; 

I  hope  you  have  some  small  enough 
For  a  little  girl  to  wear." 

No  more  she  said,  for  Piety 
(As  Marian  called  her)  threw 

Her  arms  around  the  Pilgrim's  neck, 
Whose  secret  now  she  knew. 

"  Your  words  and  ways  were  strange,"' 
said  she, 
"  But  now  'tis  plain  you've  read 
That   wondrous   book,  which,   unex- 
plained, 
Has  turned  your  little  head. 


She    knew    not   that   her 
friends 

A  little  while  before 
Had  buried  one  they  dearly  loved, 

But  could  love,  on  earth,  no  more. 


new-found    "  How  dearly,  when  a  little  child, 
I  loved  that  Pilgrim's  tale ! 
But  then  'twas  all  explained  to  me  ; 
And  if  we  can  prevail 


Their  brother  had  been  called  away 
In  the  unseen  world  to  dwell, 

But  why  her  words  should  grief  ex- 
cite 
Poor  Marian  could  not  tell. 

Sobs  only  for  a  while  were  heard  ; 

At  length  the  mother  said, 
"  My  child,  your  words  reminded  us 

Of  our  loved  and  early  dead. 

'•  But  this  you  could  not  know,  my 
dear ; 

And  it  indeed  is  true — 
We  all  are  near  to  death's  dark  door — 

Even  little  girls  like  you." 


"  On  your  kind  aunts  to  let  you  stay 
Some  time  with  us,  my  dear, 

We'll  talk  about  that  precious  book, 
And  try  to  make  it  clear." 


And  now  we'll  turn  to  Marian's  home, 
And  see  what's  passing  there. 

The  servants  all  had  company, 
And  a  merry  group  they  were. 

They  had  not  miss'd  our  Pilgrim  long, 
For  they  knew  she  oft  would  play 

In  that  old  garden  with  a  book 
The  livelong  summer  day. 


"  Yes,"  said  the  timid,  trembling  child,  At  last  said  one,  with  wondering  eyes, 

"  I  know  it  must  be  so ;  "  Where  can  Miss  Marian  be? 

But,  ma'am,  I  hope  that  Piety  Dinner  was  in  her  basket  packed, 

May  be  with  me  when  I  go.  But  sure  she'll  come  to  tea." 


LESSONS    OF   LIFE. 


yy 


They  sought  her  here,  they  sought  her 
there, 
But  could  not  find  the  child ; 
And  her  old  aunts,  when  they  came 
home, 
With  grief  were  nearly  wild. 

The  servants,  and  the  neighbors  too, 
In  different  ways  were  sent, 

But  none  thought  of  the  narroio  way 
By  which  our  Pilgrim  went. 

"  Perhaps  she  followed  us  to  town," 
One  of  her  aunts  then  said ; 

"  I  wish  we  had  not  left  our  home  ; 
I  fear  the  child  is  dead." 

So  to  the  town  some  one  was  sent, 
For  they  knew  not  what  to  do ; 

And  night  came  on,  when  a  country  boy 
Brought  Marian's  little  shoe. 

Taking  the  shoe,  the  housekeeper 

Into  the  parlor  ran : 
"  Oh,  mistress,  this  is  all  that's  left 

Of  poor  Miss  Marian ! 

"  Twas  found  in  that  deep  miry  slough 
Just  above  Harlan's  Chase — 

Poor  child !    I   fear   she's   smothered 
there, 
For  'tis  a  frightful  place." 

Then  louder  grew  the  general  grief; 

But  soon  their  hearts  were  cheered, 
For  a  footman  now  with  note  in  hand 

From  the  distant  Hall  appeared. 

One  aunt  then  read  the  note,  and  cried, 

"  Oh,  sister,  all  is  well — 
The  child  is  safe  at  Brooklawn  Hall, 

With  Lady  Arundel. 

"  She  wants  to  keep  her  for  a  month, 
And  sure  I  think  she  may  ; 


A  friend  like  Lady  Arundel 
Is  not  found  every  day. 

"  Our  compliments  and  thanks  to  her 
When  you  return,  young  man  ; 

We'll  call  io-  morrow  at  the  Hall, 
And  see  Miss  Marian." 

Then  came  a  burst  of  grateful  joy, 
Which  could  not  be  suppressed ; 

With  thankful  hearts  and  many  tears 
They  went  that  night  to  rest. 

Oh,  that  happy  month  at  Brooklawn 
Hall! 
How  soon  it  passed  away ! 
Faithful     and    kind    were    Marian's 
friends, 
And  well  she  loved  to  stay. 

With  earnest  diligence  and  prayer 
They  daily  sought  to  bring 

The  little  lamb  to  that  safe  fold 
Where  dwells  the  Shepherd  King. 

Yes,  many  a  lesson,  ne'er  forgot, 

The  little  Marian  learned  ; 
A  thoughtful  and  a  happy  child 

She  to  her  home  returned. 

Years    rolled    away.      The   scene    is 
changed ; 

A  wife  and  mother  now, 
Marian  has  found  the  Wicket-gate — 

Herself  and  children  too. 

And  oh  !  how  pleasant  'tis  to  see 

This  little  Pilgrim  band, 
As  on,  toward  their  heavenly  home, 

They  travel  hand  in  hand. 

When  cloudy  days  fall  to  their  lot, 
They  see  a  light  afar — 


94 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY 


The  light  that  shone  on  Bethlehem's 
plain, 
The  Pilgrim's  guiding  star. 

And  now,  dear  reader,  ponder  well 
This  tale — though  strange,  yet  true — 

And  let  our  Pilgrim's  history 
Its  lesson  read  to  you. 

If  to  your  young  and  trustful  hearts 
The  grace  of  God  is  given, 

Be  earnest,  as  our  Marian  was, 
To  seek  the  road  to  heaven. 


SONG  OF  LIFE. 

A  traveller  on  a  dusty  road 
Strewed  acorns  on  the  lea  ; 

And  one  took  root  and  sprouted  up, 
And  grew  into  a  tree. 

Love  sought  its  shade  at  evening-time, 
To  breathe  its  early  vows  ; 

And  Age  was  pleased,  in  heights  of 
noon, 
To  bask  beneath  its  boughs. 

The     dormouse    loved    its    dangling 
twigs, 

The  birds  sweet  music  bore — 
It  stood  a  glory  in  its  place, 

A  blessing  evermore. 

A  little  spring  had  lost  its  way 

Amid  the  grass  and  fern  ; 
A  passing  stranger  scooped  a  well 

Where  weary  men  might  turn. 

He  walled  it  in,  and  hung  with  care 

A  ladle  on  the  brink  ; 
He  thought  not  of  the  deed  he  did, 

But  judged  that  toil  might  drink. 


He  passed  again  ;  and  lo  !  the  well, 

By  summer  never  dried, 
Had    cooled    ten    thousand   parched 
tongues, 

And  saved  a  life  beside. 


A  nameless  man,  amid  the  crowd, 
That  thronged  the  daily  mart, 

Let  fall  a  word  of  hope  and  love, 
Unstudied,  from  the  heart. 

A  whisper  on  the  tumult  thrown, 

A  transitory  breath, 
It  raised  a  brother  from  the  dust, 

It  saved  a  soul  from  death. 

0  germ  !  0  fount !  0  word  of  love  ! 

0  thought  at  random  cast! 
Ye  were  but  little  at  the  first, 

But  mighty  at  the  last. 


LOVE  ONE  ANOTHER. 

Children,  do  you  love  each  other  ? 

Are  you  always  kind  and  true  ? 
Do  you  always  do  to  others 

As  you'd  have  them  do  to  you  ? 
Are  you  gentle  to  each  other  ? 

Are  you  careful,  day  by  day, 
Not  to  give  offence  by  actions 

Or  by  anything  you  say  ? 

Little  children,  love  each  other, 

Never  give  another  pain ; 
If  your  brother  speak  in  anger, 

Answer  not  in  wrath  again. 
Be  not  selfish  to  each  other — 

Never  mar  another's  rest ; 
Strive  to  make  each  other  happy, 

And  you  will  yourselves  be  blest. 


LESSONS    OF   LIFE. 


95 


LITTLE  CHRISTEL. 
i. 
Slowly  forth  from  the  village  church,— 
The  voice  of  the  choristers  hushed 
overhead, — - 
Came  little  Christel.     She  paused  in 
the  porch, 
Pondering  what  the  preacher  had 
said. 

"  Even  the  youngest,  humblest  child 
Something   may  do  to   please   the 
Lord." 
"  Now  what,"  thought  she,  and  half 
sadly  smiled, 
"  Can  I,  so  little  and  poor,  afford  ? 

"  Never,  never  a  day  should  pass 
Without     some     kindness     kindly 
shown. 


The  preacher  said."     Then  down  to 
the  grass 
A  skylark  dropped,  like  a  brown- 
winged  stone. 

"  Well,  a  day  is  before  me  now, 

Yet  what,"  thought  she,  "  can  I  do 
if  I  try  ? 

If  an  angel  of  God  would  show  me  how ! 
But  silly  am  I,  and  the  hours  they 

fly." 

Then  the  lark  sprang  singing  up  from 
the  sod, 
And  the  maiden  thought,  as  he  rose 
to  the  blue, 
"  He  says  he  will  carry  my  prayer  to 
God, 
But  who  would   have  thought  the 
little  lark  knew  ?" 


96 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


ii. 
Now  she  entered  the  village  street 

With  book  in  hand  and  face  demure ; 
And  soon  she  came,  with  sober  feet, 

To  a  crying  babe  at  a  cottage-door. 

It  wept  at  a  windmill  that  would  not 
move : 
It  puffed  with  its  round,  red  cheeks 
in  vain ; 
One  sail  stuck  fast  in  a  puzzling  groove, 
And  Baby's  breath  could  not  stir  it 
again. 

So  Baby  beat  the  sail;  and  cried, 
While  no  one  came  from  the  cottage- 
door  ; 
But  little  Christel  knelt  down  by  its 
side 
And  set  the  windmill  going  once 
more. 

Then  Babe  was  pleased,  and  the  little 
girl 
Was  glad  when  she  heard  it  laugh 
and  crow, 
Thinking,  "  Happy  windmill,  that  has 
but  to  whirl 
To  please  the  pretty  young  creature 
so!" 

in. 
No  thought   of    herself   was    in   her 
head 
As  she  passed  out  at  the  end  of  the 
street, 
And  came  to  a  rose  tree  tall  and  red, 
Drooping  and  faint  with  the  sum- 
mer heat. 

She  ran  to  a  brook  that  was  flowing 

by, 

She  made  of  her  two  hands  a  nice 
round  cup, 


And  washed  the  roots  of  the  rose  tree 
high, 
Till  it  lifted  its  languid  blossoms 
up. 

"  0  happy  brook !"  thought  little  Chris- 
tel, 
"  You   have  done   some  good  this 
summer's  day : 
You  have  made  the  flowers  look  fresh 
and  well!" 
Then  she  rose  and  went  on  her  way. 

IV. 

But  she  saw,  as  she  walked  by  the  side 
of  the  brook, 
Some  great  rough  stones  that  trou- 
bled its  course, 
And  the  gurgling  water  seemed  to  say, 
"  Look ! 
I  struggle,  and  tumble,  and  murmur 
hoarse ! 

"  How  these  stones  obstruct  my  road ! 

How  I  wish  they  were  off  and  gone ! 
Then  I  would  flow  as  once  I  flowed. 

Singing  in  silvery  undertone." 

Then  little  Christel,  as  light  as  a  bird, 
Put  off  the  shoes  from  her  young 
Avhite  feet ; 
She  moves  two  stones,  she  comes  to 
the  third ; 
The  brook  already  sings,  "  Thanks ! 
sweet!  sweet!" 

Oh!  then  she  hears  the  lark  in  the 
skies, 
And  thinks,  "  What  is  it  to  God  he 
says  ?" 
And  she  stumbles  and  falls,  and  can- 
not rise, 
For  the  water  stifles  her  downward 
face. 


LESSONS    OF  LIFE. 


97 


The  little  brook  flows  on  as  before, 
The  little  lark  sings  with  as  sweet  a 
sound, 
The  little  babe  crows  at  the  cottage- 
door, 
And  the  red  rose  blooms, — butChris- 
tel  lies  drowned. 


Come  in  softly  !  this  is  the  room : 

Is  not  that  an  innocent  face? 
Yes,  those  flowers  give  a  faint  per- 
fume : 
Think,  child,  of  heaven,  and  Our 
Lord  his  grace. 

Three  at  the  right,  and  three  at  the 
left, 
Two   at  the   feet,  and   two   at  the 
head, 
The  tapers  burn.     The  friends  bereft 
Have  cried  till  their  eyes  are  swollen 
and  red. 

Who  would  have  thought  it  when  lit- 
tle Christel 
Pondered  on  what  the  preacher  had 
told  ? 
But  the  good  wise  God  does  all  things 
well, 
And  the  fair   young   creature   lies 
dead  and  cold. 

VI. 

Then  a  little  stream   crept  into  the 
place, 
And  rippled  up  to  the  coffin's  side, 
And  touched  the  corpse  on  its   pale 
round  face, 
And  kissed  the  eyes  till  they  trem- 
bled wide ; 
7 


Saying,  "  I   am  a  river  of  joy  from 
heaven ; 
You  helped  the  brook,  and  I  help 
you: 
I  sprinkle  your  brow  with  life-drops 
seven, 
I    bathe    your   eyes   with    healing 
dew." 

Then   a  rose-branch  in  through  the 
window  came, 
And   colored   her  cheeks   and  lips 
with  red  : 
"  I  remember,  and  Heaven  does   the 
same," 
Was  all  that  the  faithful  rose-branch 
said. 

Then  a  bright,  small  form  to  her  cold 
neck  clung, 
It  breathed  on  her  till  her  breast 
did  fill, 
Saying,  "  I  am  a   cherub,   fond   and 
young, 
And   I  saw  who  breathed   on  the 
baby's  mill." 

Then  little  Christel  sat  up  and  smiled, 
And  said,  "  Who  put  these  flowers 
in  my  hand  ?" 
And  rubbed  her  eyes,  poor  innocent 
child, 
Not  being  able  to  understand. 

VII. 

But  soon  she  heard  the  big  bell  of  the 
church 
Give  the  hour,  which  made  her  say, 
"  Ah,  I  have  slept  and  dreamed  in  the 
porch  : 
It  is  a  very  drowsy  day." 

"LlLLIPUT  LEVE£.'r 


98 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY 


JEANNETTE  AND  JO. 

Two  girls  I  know — Jeannette  and  Jo, 
And  one  is  always  moping  ; 

The  other  lassie,  come  what  may, 
Is  ever  bravely  hoping. 

Beauty  of  face  and  girlish  grace 
Are  theirs,  for  joy  or  sorrow  ; 

Jeannette  takes  brightly  every  day, 
And  Jo  dreads  each  to-morrow. 

One    early    morn   they    watched  the 
dawn — 
I  saw  them  stand  together  ; 
Their  whole   day's   sport,  'twas  very 
plain, 
Depended  on  the  weather. 

"  'Twill  storm !"  cried  Jo.     Jeannette 
spoke  low, 

"  Yes,  but  'twill  soon  be  over." 
And,  as  she  spoke,  the  sudden  shower 

Came  beating  down  the  clover. 

"  I  told  you  so !  "  cried  angry  Jo ; 

"  It  always  is  a-raining !  " 
Then  hid  her  face  in  dire  despair, 

Lamenting  and  complaining. 

But  sweet  Jeannette,   quite   hopeful 
yet — 

I  tell  it  to  her  honor — 
Looked  up  and  waited  till  the  sun 

Came  streaming  in  upon  her ; 

The  broken  clouds  sailed  off  in  crowds 

Across  a  sea  of  glory. 
Jeannette  and  Jo  ran,  laughing,  in — 

Which  ends  my  simple  story. 

Joy    is    divine.     Come    storm,    come 
shine, 
The  hopeful  are  the  gladdest ; 


And  doubt  and  dread,  dear  girls,  be- 
lieve, 
Of  all  things  are  the  saddest. 

In  morning's  light  let  youth  be  bright, 
Take  in  the  sunshine  tender ; 

Then,  at  the  close,  shall  life's  decline 
Be  full  of  sunset  splendor. 

And  ye  who  fret,  try,  like  Jeannette, 
To  shun  all  weak  complaining  ; 

And  not,  like  Jo,  cry  out  too  soon, 
"  It  always  is  a-raining !" 

Mary  Mapes  Dodge. 


LEARN  YOUR  LESSON. 

You'll  not  learn  your  lesson  by  cry- 
ing, my  man, 
You'll  never  come  at  it  by  crying,  my 
man  ; 

Not  a  word  can  you  spy 
For  the  tear  in  your  eye  ; 
Then  set  your  heart  to  it,  for  surely 
you  can. 

If  you  like  your  lesson,  it's  sure  to 

like  you, 
The  words  then  so  glibly  would  jump 
into  view ; 

Each  one  to  its  place 
All  the  others  would  chase, 
Till   the   laddie   would    wonder   how 
clever  he  grew. 

You'll    cry   till   you    make   yourself 

stupid  and  blind. 
And  then  not  a  word  can  you  keep  in 
your  mind ; 

But  cheer  up  your  heart, 
And  you'll  soon  have  your  part, 
For  all  things  grow  easy  when  bairns 
are  inclined. 

Alexander  Smart. 


LESSONS    OF   LIFE. 


99 


SUNSHINE  AND  SHOWERS. 

Two  children   stood  at  their  father's 
gate, 
Two  girls  with  golden  hair, 
And  their  eyes  were  bright,  and  their 
voices  glad, 
Because  the  morn  was  fair ; 
For  they   said, "  We   will   take   that 
long,  long  walk 
To  the  hawthorn  copse  to-day, 
And   gather  great  bunches  of  lovely 
flowers 
From  off  the  scented  may ; 
And  oh !  we  shall  be  so  happy  there 
'Twill  be  sorrow  to  come  away  !" 

As  the  children  spoke  a  little  cloud 
Passed  slowly  across  the  sky, 

And   one   looked   up   in   her   sister's 
face 
With  a  tear-drop  in  her  eye. 

But  the  other  said,  "  Oh !  heed  it  not, 
'Tis  far  too  fair  to  rain : 


That  little  cloud  may  search  the  sky 

For  other  clouds  in  vain." 
And  soon  the  children's  voices  rose 

In  merriment  again. 

But  ere  the  morning  hours  waned 

The  sky  had  changed  its  hue, 
And  that  one  cloud  had  chased  away 

The  whole  great  heaven  of  blue. 
The  rain  fell  down  in  heavy  drops, 

The  wind  began  to  blow, 
And  the  children,  in  their  nice,  warm 
room, 

Went  fretting  to  and  fro ; 
For  they  said,  "  When  we  have  aught 
in  store 

It  always  happens  so !" 

Now  these  two  fair-haired  sisters 

Had  a  brother  out  at  sea, 
A  little  midshipman,  aboard 

The  gallant  "Victory;" 
And  on  that  selfsame  morning 

When  they  stood  beside  the  gate 


100 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


His  ship  was  wrecked,  and  on  a  raft 

He  stood  all  desolate, 
With  the  other  sailors  round  him, 

Prepared  to  meet  their  fate. 

Beyond,  they  saw  the  cool,  green  land, 

The  land  with  her  waving  trees, 
And  her  little  brooks,  that  rise  and 
fall 
Like  butterflies  to  the  breeze. 
But  above  them  the  burning  noontide 
sun 
With  scorching  stillness  shone ; 
Their  throats  were  parched  with  bitter 
thirst, 
And  they  knelt  down  one  by  one, 
And  prayed  to  God  for  a  drop  of  rain, 
And  a  gale  to  waft  them  on. 

And  then  that  little  cloud  was  sent, 

That  shower  in  mercy  given, 
And  as  a  bird  before  the  breeze 

Their  bark  was  landward  driven. 
And  some  few  mornings  after, 

When  the  children  met  once  more, 
And  their  brother  told  the  story, 

They  knew  it  was  the  hour 
When  they  had  wished  for  sunshine 

And  God  had  sent  the  shower  1 


WHAT  MAKES  ME  HAPPIEST? 

What  is  it  makes  me  happiest? 

Is  it  my  last  new  play  ? 
Is  it  pussy,  ball,  or  hoop? 

Can  you,  dear  mamma,  say? 

Is  it  my  puzzles  or  my  blocks, 

My  pleasant  solitaire, 
My  dolls,  my  kittens,  or  my  books, 

Or  flowers  fresh  and  fair? 

What  is  it  makes  me  happiest  ? 
It  is  not  one  of  these, 


Yet  they  are  pretty  things  I  love, 
And  never  fail  to  please. 

Oh,  it  is  looks  and  tones  of  love 
From  those  I  love  the  best 

That  follow  me  when  I  do  right — 
These  make  me  happiest. 

THE  RICHEST  PRINCE. 
Once,  as  many  German  princes 

Feasting  sat  at  knightly  board, 
Each  began  to  boast  the  treasures 

He  within  his  lands  had  stored. 

Cried  the  Saxon :  "  Great  and  mighty 
Is  the  wealth,  the  power  I  wield, 

For  within  my  Saxon  mountains 
Sparkling  silver  lies  concealed." 

"  Mine's    the    land  that  glows  with 
beauty  I" 

Cried  the  ruler  of  the  Rhine ; 
"  In  the  valleys  yellow  cornfields, 

On  the  mountains  noble  wine !" 

"  Wealthy  cities,  spacious  castles," 
Lewis  said,  Bavaria's  lord, 

"  Make  my  land  to  yield  me  treasures 
Great  as  those  your  fields  afford." 

Wurtemberg's  beloved  ruler, 

Everard,  called  "  the  Bearded,"  cries, 

"  I  can  boast  no  splendid  cities, 
In  my  hills  no  silver  lies ; 

"  But  I  still  can  boast  one  jewel : 
Through  my  forests,  wandering  on, 

All  my  subjects  know  me — love  me — 
I  am  safe  with  every  one." 

Then  the  princes,  all  together, 
Rose  within  that  lofty  hall : 

"  Bearded   count,  thou'rt  rich,"  they 
shouted, 
"  Thou  art  wealthiest  of  us  all !" 


LESSONS    OF   LIFE. 


101 


THE  MUSIC-LESSON. 

Touch  the  keys  lightly, 

Nellie,  my  dear : 
The  noise  makes  Johnnie 

Impatient,  I  fear. 

He  looks  very  cross, 

I  am  sorry  to  see — 
Not  looking  at  all 

As  a  brother  should  be. 

Whatever  you're  doing, 
Bear  this  always  in  mind  : 

In  all  little  things 

Be  both  thoughtful  and  kind. 

SUPPOSE. 
Suppose,  my  little  lady, 

Your  doll  should  break  her  head, 
Could  you  make  it  whole  by  crying 

Till  }rour  eyes  and  nose  are  red  ? 
And  wouldn't  it  be  pleasanter 

To  treat  it  as  a  joke, 


And  say  you're  glad  "  'twas  Dolly's, 
And  not  your  head,  that  broke  "  ? 

Suppose  you're  dressed  for  walking, 

And  the  rain  comes  pouring  down, 
Will  it  clear  off  any  sooner 

Because  you  scold  and  frown  ? 
And  wouldn't  it  be  nicer 

For  you  to  smile  than  pout, 
And  so  make  sunshine  in  the  house 

When  there  is  none  without? 

Suppose  your  task,  my  little  man, 

Is  very  hard  to  get, 
Will  it  make  it  any  easier 

For  you  to  sit  and  fret  ? 
And  wouldn't  it  be  wiser 

Than  waiting,  like  a  dunce, 
To  go  to  work  in  earnest 

And  learn  the  thing  at  once? 

Suppose  that  some  boys  have  a  horse, 
And  some  a  coach  and  pair, 


102 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


Will  it  tire  you  less  while  walking     - 

To  say,  "It  isn't  fair "? 
And  wouldn't  it  be  nobler 

To  keep  your  temper  sweet, 
And  in  your  heart  be  thankful 

You  can  walk  upon  your  feet  ? 

And  suppose  the  world  don't  please 
you, 

Nor  the  wa)r  some  people  do, 
Do  you  think  the  whole  creation 

Will  be  altered  just  for  you  ? 
And  isn't  it,  my  boy  or  girl, 

The  wisest,  bravest  plan, 
Whatever  comes  or  doesn't  come, 

To  do  the  best  you  can  ? 

Phcebe  Cary. 


THE  PALACE  AND  COTTAGE. 

High  on  a  mountain's  haughty  steep 
Lord  Hubert's  palace  stood  ; 

Before  it  rolled  a  river  deep, 
Behind  it  waved  a  wood. 

Low  in  an  unfrequented  vale 

A  peasant  built  his  cell ; 
Sweet  flowers   perfumed  the  cooling 
gale 

And  graced  his  garden  well. 

Loud  riot  through  Lord  Hubert's  hall 

In  noisy  clamor  ran  ; 
He  scarcely  closed  his  eyes  at  all 

Till  breaking  day  began. 

In  scenes  of  quiet  and  repose 
Young  William's  life  was  spent ; 

With  morning's  early  beam  he  rose, 
And  forth  to  labor  went. 

On  sauces  rich  and  viands  fine 

Lord  Hubert  daily  fed, 
His  goblet  filled  with  sparkling  wine, 

His  board  with  dainties  spread. 


Warm  from  the  sickle  or  the  plough, 

His  heart  as  light  as  air, 
His  garden  ground  and  dappled  cow 

Supplied  young  William's  fare. 

On  beds  of  down,  beset  with  gold, 

With  satin  curtains  drawn, 
His  feverish  limbs  Lord  Hubert  rolled 

From  midnight's  gloom  to  morn. 

Stretched  on  a  hard  and  flocky  bed 

The  cheerful  rustic  lay, 
And  sweetest  slumbers  lulled  his  head 

From  eve  to  breaking  day. 

Fever  and  gout  and  aches  and  pains 
Destroyed  Lord  Hubert's  rest ; 

Disorder  burnt  in  all  his  veins, 
And  sickened  in  his  breast. 

A  stranger  to  the  ills  of  wealth, 

Behind  his  rugged  plough 
The  cheek  of  William  glowed   with 
health, 

And  cheerful  was  his  brow. 

No  gentle  friend,  to  soothe  his  pain, 
Sat  near  Lord  Hubert's  bed ;  ♦. 

His  friends  and   servants,  light  and 
vain, 
From  scenes  of  sorrow  fled. 

But  William,  when,  with  many  a  year, 

His  dying  day  came  on, 
Had    wife    and    child,    with    bosom 
dear, 

To  lean  and  rest  upon. 

The  solemn  hearse,  the  waving  plume, 

A  train  of  mourners  grim, 
Carried  Lord  Hubert  to  the  tomb, 

But  no  one  grieved  for  him. 

No  weeping  eye,  no  gentle  breast, 
Lamented  his  decay, 


LESSONS   OF   LIFE. 


103 


Nor  round  his  costly  coffin  pressed 
To  gaze  upon  his  clay: 

But  when  within  the  narrow  bed 

Old  William  came  to  lie, 
When  clammy  sweats  had  chilled  his 
head 

And  death  had  glazed  his  eye, 

Sweet  tears,  by  fond  affection  dropt, 
From  many  an  eyelid  fell, 

And  many  a  lip,  by  anguish  stopt, 
Half  spoke  the  sad  farewell. 

No  marble  pile  or  costly  tomb 
Is  seen  where  William  sleeps, 

But  there  wild  thyme  and  cowslips 
bloom, 
And  there  affection  weeps. 

Jane  Taylor. 


THE  MILLER  OF  DEE. 

There  dwelt  a  miller,  hale  and  bold, 

Beside  the  river  Dee  ; 
He  worked  and  sang  from  morn  till 
night, 

No  lark  more  blithe  than  he ; 
And  this  the  burden  of  his  song 

For  ever  used  to  be  : 
"  I  envy  nobody,  no,  not  I, 

And  nobody  envies  me." 

"  Thou'rt    wrong,    my    friend,"    said 
good  King  Hal — 

"  As  wrong  as  wrong  can  be — 
For  could  my  heart  be  light  as  thine, 

I'd  gladly  change  with  thee ; 
And  tell  me  now,  what  makes  thee 
sing, 

With  voice  so  loud  and  free, 
While  I  am  sad,  though  I'm  the  king, 

Beside  the  river  Dee." 


The   miller   smiled    and    doffed    his 
cap: 

"  I  earn  my  bread,"  quoth  he ; 
"  I  love  my  wife,  I  love  my  friend, 

I  love  my  children  three  ; 
I  owe  no  penny  I  cannot  pay  ; 

I  thank  the  river  Dee, 
That  turns  the  mill  that  grinds   the 
corn 

That  feeds  my  babes  and  me." 

"  Good  friend,"  said  Hal,  and  sighed 
the  while, 

"  Farewell  and  happy  be  ; 
But  say  no  more,  if  thou'dst  be  true, 

That  no  one  envies  thee  : 
Thy  mealy  cap  is  worth  my  crown. 

Thy  mill,  my  kingdom's  fee  ; 
Such    men    as    thou    are    England's 
boast, 

O  miller  of  the  Dee  !" 

Charles  Mackay. 


PATIENT  JOE; 

OR,   THE   NEWCASTLE  COLLIER. 

Have  you  heard  of  a  collier  of  honest 
renown, 

Who  dwelt  on  the  borders  of  Newcas- 
tle town  ? 

His  name  it  was  Joseph — you  better 
may  know 

If  I  tell  you  he  always  was  called  Pa- 
tient Joe. 

Whatever  betided,  he  thought  it  was 

right, 
And  Providence  still  he  kept  ever  in 

sight ; 
To  those  who  love  God,  let  things  turn 

as  they  would, 
He  was  certain  that  all  worked  together 

for  good. 


104 


THE    CHILDREN'S  BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


He  praised  the  Creator  whatever  be-  I  One  day,  at  the  pit,  his  old  comrades 

fell ; —  he  found, 

How  thankful  was  Joseph  when  mat-    And  they  chatted,  preparing  to  go  un- 

ters  went  well !  derground  ; 

How   sincere   were    his    offerings   of  j  Tim  Jenkins,  as  usual,  was  turning  to 

praise  for  good  health  !  jest 


And  how  grateful  for  any  increase  of 
his  wealth ! 

In  trouble  he  bowed  him  to  God's  holy 
will : — 

How  contented  was  Joseph  when  mat- 
ters went  ill ! 

When  rich  and  when  poor,  he  alike 
understood 

That  all  things  together  were  working 
for  good. 


Joe's  notion  that  all  things  which  hap- 
pened were  best. 

As  Joe  on  the  ground  had  unthink- 
ingly laid 

His  provision  for  dinner,  of  bacon  and 
bread, 

A  dog,  on  the  watch,  seized  the  bread 
and  the  meat, 

And  off  with  his  prey  ran  with  foot- 
steps so  fleet. 


It  was  Joseph's  ill-fortune  to  work  in    Now,   to    see   the    delight  that   Tim 
a  pit  Jenkins  expressed  ' 


With  some  who  believed  that  profane- 

ness  was  wit ; 
When    disasters    befell     him,    much 

pleasure  they  showed, 
And  laughed,  and  said,  "  Joseph,  will 

this  work  for  good?" 


"  Is  the  loss  of  thy  dinner,  too,  Joe,  for 

the  best?" 
"  No  doubt  on't,"  said  Joe ;  "  but  as  I 

must  eat, 
'Tis  my  duty  to  try  to  recover  my 

meat." 


But  always  when  these  would  profane-  i  So  saying,  he  followed  the  dog  a  long 


ly  advance 
That  this  happened  by  luck,  and  that 
happened  by  chance, 


round, 
While  Tim,  laughing  and  swearing, 
went  down  underground. 


Still  Joseph  insisted  no  chance  could  i  Poor  Joe  soon  returned,  though  his 


be  found — 
Not  a  sparrow  by  accident  falls  to  the 
ground. 

Among  his  companions  who  worked 
in  the  pit, 


bacon  was  lost, 
For  the  dog  a  good  dinner  had  made 
at  his  cost. 

When  Joseph  came  back  he  expected 
a  sneer, 


And  made  him  the  butt  of  their  prof-    But  the  face  of  each  collier  spoke  hor- 


ligate  wit, 
Was  idle  Tim  Jenkins,  who  drank  and 

who  gamed, 
Who  mocked  at  his  Bible,  and  was  not 

ashamed. 


ror  and  fear : 

"  What  a  narrow  escape  hast  thou 
had,"  they  all  said, 

"  For  the  pit's  fallen  in  and  Tim  Jen- 
kins is  dead !" 


LESSONS   OF   LIFE. 


105 


How  sincere  was  the  gratitude 
Joseph  expressed ! 

How  warm  the  compassion  that 
glowed  in  his  breast ! 

Thus  events,  great  and  small,  if 
aright  understood, 

Will  be  found  to  be  working  to- 
gether for  good. 

"When  my  meat,"  Joseph  cried. 
"  was  just  stolen  away, 

And  I  had  no  prospect  of  eating 
to-day, 

How  could  it  appear  to  a  short- 
sighted sinner 

That  my  life  would  be  saved  by 
the  loss  of  my  dinner?" 

Hasxah  More. 

THE  BOY'S  WISH. 

"  Well,  I  think  I'll  be  a  soldier; 
Mother,  don't  you  think  I'm 
right  ? 
It -must  be  so  fine,  I  fancy, 
With   a   gun   and    sword    to 
fight— 

"  Fine  to  see  the  flags  all  flying, 
And  to  hear  the  cannon  roar — 

Fine  to  get  a  silver  medal 
When  the  fighting  all  is  o'er. 


i  Sha'n't  I  like  to  be  a  soldier, 
Charging  with  my  gallant  men  ! 

I'll  come  home  with  hat  and  feathers: 
You  won't  know  your  Willie  then." 

"  Ah,  my  son,  if  you  must  battle, 

Be  a  soldier  of  the  Lord ; 
Let  your  foe  be  sin  and  evil, 

And  the  Bible  be  your  sword. 


"  Your  reward  will  be  the  brighter ; 

More,  my  son,  than  earthly  gain ; 
Life  with  Jesus  everlasting, 

All  of  pleasure,  naught  of  pain." 


TWO  PICTURES. 


An 


old    farm-house,   with    meadows 

wide, 
And  sweet  with  clover  on  each  side ; 
A  bright-eyed  boy,  who  looks  from 

out 
The   door,    with   woodbine   wreathed 

about, 
And  wishes  his  one  thought  all  day : 
"Oh,  if  I  could  but  fly  away 


106 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


From  this  dull  spot,  the  world  to 
see, 
How  happy,  happy,  happy, 
How  happy  I  should  be!" 

Amid  the  city's  constant  din, 
A  man  who  round  the  world  has  been, 
Who,  'mid  the  tumult  and  the  throng, 
Is  thinking,  thinking,  all  day  long, 
"  Oh,  could  I  only  tread  once  more 
The  field-path  to  the  farm-house  door, 

The  old  green  meadows  could  I  see, 
How  happy,  happy,  happy, 

How  happy  I. should  be  I" 

Marian  Douglas. 


KITTY. 

Alas!  little  Kitty — do  give  her  your 

pity  !— 
Had  lived  seven  years,  and  was  never 
called  pretty ! 
Her  hair  was  bright  red  and  her 
eyes  were  dull  blue, 

And  her  cheeks  were  so  freckled, 
They  looked  like  the  speckled 
Wild    lilies    Avhich    down    in    the 
meadow-lands  grew. 
If  her  eyes  had  been  black,  if  she'd 

only  had  curls, 
She  had  been,  so  she  thought,  the  most 
happy  of  girls. 

Her  cousins  around  her,  they  pouted 

and  fretted, 
But  they   were   all  pretty  and  they 
were  all  petted ; 
While    poor    little    Kitty,    though 
striving  her  best 

To  do  her  child's  duty, 
Not  sharing  their  beauty, 
Was    always  neglected   and   never 
caressed. 


All  in  vain,  so  she  thought,  was  she 

loving  and  true, 
While  her  hair  was  bright  red  and 

her  eyes  were  dull  blue. 

But  one  day,  alone  'mid  the  clover- 
blooms  sitting, 
She  heard  a  strange  sound,  as  of  wings 
round  her  flitting ; 
A  light  not  of  sunbeams,  a  fragrance 
more  sweet 

Than  the  wind's,  blowing  over 
The  red-blossomed  clover, 
Made  her  thrill  with  delight  from 
her  head  to  her  feet ; 
And  a  voice,  sweet  and  rare,  whispered 

low  in  the  air, 
"  See  that  beautiful,  beautiful   child 
sitting  there  !" 

Thrice  blessed  little  Kitty!     She  al- 
most looked  pretty  ! 
Beloved  by  the  angels,  she  needed  no 
pity  ! 
0  juvenile  charmers  !    with   shoul- 
ders of  snow, 

Ruby  lips,  sunny  tresses — 
Forms  made  for  caresses — 
There's  one  thing,  my  beauties !  'tis 
well  you  should  know  : 
Though   the   world   is   in    love   with 

bright  eyes  and  soft  hair, 
It  is  only   good  children   the  angels 
call  fair. 

Marian  Douglas. 


BESSIE  BELL. 

"  Dear  mother,  why  do  all  the  girls 

Love  little  Bessie  Bell  ? 
I've  often  thought  it  o'er  and  o'er, 

And  yet  I  cannot  tell. 
My  favorite  cousin  always  was 

Dear,  gentle  cousin  Bess ; 


LESSONS   OF   LIFE. 


107 


But  why  the  girls  all  love  her  so, 
Indeed  I  cannot  guess. 

"  She's  not  so  pretty,  half,  as  Kate  ; 

Her  hair  don't  curl  like  mine  ; 
Candies  and  cakes  she  never  brings 

To  school,  like  Caroline  ; 
She  has  no  garden  large  and  fine, 

Like  Amy,  Grace,  and  Jane  ; 
Xo  coach,  like  Rose,  to  take  us  home 

When  falls  the  snow  or  rain." 

*'  They  hear  her  gentle  voice,  my  child, 

And  see  her  mild,  soft  eye 
Beaming  around  on  every  one 

With  love  and  sympathy. 
They  see  her  striving  every  hour 

For  others'  happiness ; 
These  are  some  reasons  why  the  girls 

So  love  dear  little  Bess. 

"  Her   widowed    mother's    heart    she 
cheers 

By  love  and  tenderness, 
And  by  her  daily  walk  with  God. 

And  growth  in  holiness. 


Sweet  Bessie  is  a  Christian  child, 
She  loves  the  Saviour  dear ; 

One  of  the  lambs  of  His  own  flock. 
She  has  no  want  or  fear. 

'"  Money,  which  other  children  spend 

In  candies,  toys,  and  cake, 
She  carries  to  the  poor  and  sick — 

She  loves  them  for  Christ's  sake. 
Poor  old  blind  Dinah  down  the  lane 

She  reads  to  every  day, 
And   ne'er   forgets    it  —  though   dear 
Bess 

Is  very  fond  of  play. 

"And  now,  my  little  daughter  dear, 

Would  you  be  loved  like  Bess  ? 
Go  ask  of  God  to  change  your  heart 

From  pride  and  sinfulness 
Better  than  beauty,  rank,  or  gold 

To  be  like  little  Bess, 
Clothed  in  the  spotless  garment 

Of  the  Saviour's  righteousness.'" 

Youth's  Penny  Gazette. 


108 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


OLD  CATO. 

ANNA. 

Why,  here  comes  old  Cato !  how  smi- 
ling he  looks, 
Though  he's  limping  along  on  his 
staff; 
His  clothes  are  all  patched,  and  so 
worn  and  so  poor 
I  wonder  he  ever  can  laugh. 

I've  heen  at  his  cottage ;  the  snow  and 
the  rain 
Beat  through  it  at  every  flaw  ; 
'Tis  neat  as  a  pin,  but  so  empty  and 
dark ! 
And  his  bed,  why,  'tis  nothing  but 
straw. 

What  is  it  that  makes  him  so  cheerful, 
mamma, 
A  cripple,  and  wretchedly  j^oor  ? 
If  I  were  as  old  and  as  helpless  as  he 
I   should   cry  all   the  time,   I   am 
sure. 

MAMMA. 

I'll  tell  you,  my  dear :  old  Cato  has 
found 
A  Friend  and  a  Father  in  heaven ; 
He  loves  the  dear  Saviour,  obeys  His 
commands, 
And  trusts  that  his  sins  are  forgiven. 

When  the  wind  loudly  roars,  and  the 
snow  and  the  rain 
Are  drenching  his  desolate  home, 
He  thinks  of  that  glorious  mansion 
where  storms 
Are  never  permitted  to  come. 

And  when  he  sits  down  to  his  poor, 
scanty  meal, 
Which  to  others  so  tasteless  appears, 


He  remembers  his  Saviour  was  poor 
for  his  sake, 
And  he  waters  his  crust  with  his 
tears. 

He  is  old,  but  it  gladdens  his  heart  to 
reflect 
That  his  trials  will  shortly  be  o'er — 
That  he  soon  shall  arrive  at  a  world 
of  delight, 
To  sin  and  to  suffer  no  more. 

And  he  thinks,  when  he  lies  on  his 
bundle  of  straw, 
With   his  weary  limbs  aching  for 
rest, 
That  he  soon  shall  awake  in  the  arms 
of  his  Lord, 
And  be  to  eternity  blest. 

For  his  dear  fellow-sinners  he  pours 
out  his  soul 
In  frequent  affectionate  prayers, 
And  is  often  inviting  the  old  and  the 
young 
To  receive  his  Redeemer  for  theirs. 

And   now  do  you  wonder  that  Cato 
should  smile, 
And  that  his  old  heart  should  be 
glad? 
Oh,  if  I  could  have  such  a  spirit  as  his, 
I  never  again  should  be  sad. 


DISCONTENT. 

Down  in  a  field,  one  day  in  June, 
The  flowers  all  bloomed  together, 

Save  one,  who  tried  to  hide  herself, 
And  drooped,  that  pleasant  weather. 

A  robin,  who  had  soared  too  high, 

And  felt  a  little  lazy, 
Was  resting  near  a  buttercup, 

Who  wished  she  were  a  daisy. 


LESSONS  OF  LIFE. 


109 


For  daisies  grow  so  trig  and  tall ; 

She  always  had  a  passion 
For  wearing  frills  about  her  neck, 

In  just  the  daisies'  fashion. 

And  buttercups  must  always  be 
The  same  old,  tiresome  color, 

While  daisies  dress  in  gold  and  white, 
Although  their  gold  is  duller. 

"  Dear   robin,"  said   this   sad   young 
flower, 

"  Perhaps  you'd  not  mind  trying 
To  find  a  nice  white  frill  for  me 

Some  day,  when  you  are  flying." 

"  You  silly  thing !"  the  robin  said  ; 

"  I  think  you  must  be  crazy  ; 
I'd  rather  be  my  honest  self 

Than  any  made-up  daisy. 

"  You're  nicer  in  your   own"  bright 
gown ; 

The  little  children  love  you  j 
Be  the  best  buttercup  you  can, 

And  think  no  flower  above  you. 

"  Though  swallows  leave  me  out  of 
sight, 

We'd  better  keep  our  places ; 
Perhaps  the  world  would  all  go  wrong 

With  one  too  many  daisies. 

"  Look  bravely  up  into  the  sky, 
And  be  content  with  knowing 

That  God  wished  for  a  buttercup 
Just  here,  where  you  are  growing." 

Sarah  O.  Jewett. 

THE  OLD  MAN'S  COMFORTS; 

AND    HOW    HE    GAINED    THEM. 

You  are  old,  Father  William,  the  young 
man  cried, 
The  few  locks  which  are  left  you  are 
gray ; 


You  are  hale,  Father  William,  a  hearty 
old  man ; 
Now  tell  me  the  reason,  I  pray. 

In  the  days  of  my  youth,  Father  Wil- 
liam replied, 
I  remembered  that  youth  would  fly 
fast, 
And  abused  not  my  health  and  my 
vigor  at  first, 
That  I  never  might  need  them  at 
last. 

You    are   old,    Father   William,   the 
young  man  cried, 
And    pleasures    with    youth    pass 
away, 
And  yet  you  lament  not  the  days  that 
are  gone ; 
Now  tell  me  the  reason,  I  pray. 

In  the  days  of  my  youth,  Father  Wil- 
liam replied, 
I  remembered  that  youth  could  not 
last; 
I  thought  of  the  future,  whatever  I 
did, 
That  I  never  might  grieve  for  the 
past. 

You    are    old,   Father  William,   the 
young  man  cried, 
And  life  must  be  hastening  away ; 
You  are  cheerful,  and  love  to  converse 
upon  death  ; 
Now  tell  me  the  reason,  I  pray. 

I   am   cheerful,  young   man,    Father 
William  replied ; 
Let  the  cause  thy  attention  engage : 
In  the  days  of  my  youth  I  remem- 
bered my  God, 
And  He  hath  not  forgotten  my  age. 

BOBERT  SOUTHEY. 


110 


THE    CHILDREN'S    BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


MEDDLESOME  MATTY. 
One  ugly  trick  has  often  spoiled 

The  sweetest  and  the  best : 
Matilda,  though  a  pleasant  child, 

One  ugly  trick  possessed, 
Which,  like  a  cloud  before  the  skies, 
Hid  all  her  better  qualities. 

Sometimes  she'd  lift  the  tea-pot  lid 
To  peep  at  what  was  in  it, 

Or  tilt  the  kettle,  if  you  did 
But  turn  your  back  a  minute. 

In  vain  you  told  her  not  to  touch, 

Her  trick  of  meddling  grew  so  much. 

Her  grandmamma  went  out  one  day, 

And  by  mistake  she  laid 
Her  spectacles  and  snuff-box  gay 

Too  near  the  little  maid ; 
"  Ah  well !"  thought  she,  "  I'll  try  them 

on 
As  soon  as  grandmamma  is  gone." 

Forthwith  she  placed  upon  her  nose 
The  glasses  large  and  wide, 


And  looking  round,  as  I  suppose, 
The  snuff-box  too  she  spied. 

"  Oh,  what  a  pretty  box  is  that ! 
I'll  open  it,"  said  little  Matt. 

"  I   know  that  grandmamma   would 
say, 

'  Don't  meddle  with  it,  dear !' 
But  then  she's  far  enough  away, 

And  no  one  else  is  near ; 
Besides,  what  can  there  be  amiss 
In  opening  such  a  box  as  this  ?" 

So  thumb  and  finger  went  to  work 

To  move  the  stubborn  lid, 
And  presently  a  mighty  jerk 

The  mighty  mischief  did  ; 
For  all  at  once — ah  woeful  case ! — 
The  snuff  came  puffing  in  her  face. 

Poor  eyes  and  nose  and  mouth  beside 

A. dismal  sight  presented; 
In  vain,  as  bitterly  she  cried, 

Her  folly  she  repented — 
In  vain  she  ran  about  for  ease  ; 
She  could  do  nothing  now  but  sneeze. 


LESSONS   OF   LIFE. 


Ill 


She  dashed  the  spectacles  away 

To  wipe  her  tingling  eyes, 
And  as  in  twenty  bits  they  lay, 

Her  grandmamma  she  spies. 
;i  Hey-day !    and    what's    the    matter 

now  ?" 
Says  grandmamma,  with  lifted  brow. 

Matilda,  smarting  with  the  pain, 
And  tingling  still  and  sore, 

Made  many  a  promise  to  refrain 
From  meddling  evermore. 

And  'tis  a  fact,  as  I  have  heard, 

She  ever  since  has  kept  her  word. 

Jane  Taylor. 


THE  MILKMAID. 

A  milkmaid,  who  poised  a  full  pail  on 

her  head, 
Thus  mused  on  her  prospects  in  life,  it 

is  said : 
c'  Let's  see — I  should  think  that  this 

milk  will  procure 
One  hundred  good  eggs,  or  fourscore, 

to  be  sure. 

"  Well,  then — stop  a  bit — it  must  not 

be  forgotten 
Some  of  these  may  be  broken,  and 

some  may  be  rotten  ; 
But  if  twenty  for  accident  should  be 

detached, 
It  will  leave  me  just  sixty  sound  eggs 

to  be  hatched. 

"  Well,  sixty  sound  eggs — no,  sound 

chickens,  I  mean ; 
Of  these  some  may  die — we'll  suppose  I  Thirty  geese  and  two  turkeys,  eight 

seventeen.  pigs  and  a  sow  : 

Seventeen  ?  not  so  many — say  ten  at    Now,  if  these  turn  out  well,  at  the  end 

the  most,  of  the  year 

Which  will  leave  fifty  chickens  to  boil  |  I   shall   fill    both    my   pockets   with 

or  to  roast.  I  guineas, 'tis  clear." 


"  But  then  there's  their  barley  ;  how 

much  will  they  need  ? 
Why,  they  take  but  one  grain  at  a  time 

when  they  feed ; 
So  that's  a  mere  trifle ;  now,  then,  let 

us  see 
At   a   fair   market   price    how   much 

money  there'll  be. 

"  Six  shillings  a  pair — five — four — 
three-and-six ; 

To  prevent  all  mistakes,  that  low 
price  I  will  fix  ; 

Now  what  will  that  make  ?  fifty  chick- 
ens I  said  ; 

Fifty  times  three-and-sixpence — I'll 
ask  brother  Ned. 

"  Oh  !    but    stop — three-and-sixpence 

a  pair  I  must  sell  'em  ; 
Well,  a  pair  is  a  couple — now,  then,  let 

us  tell  'em ; 
A  couple  in  fifty  will  go — (my  poor 

brain !) 
Why,  just  a  score  times,  and  five  pair 

will  remain. 

''Twenty-five   pairs    of    fowls  —  now, 

how  tiresome  it  is 
That  I  cannot  reckon  up  such  money 

as  this ! 
Well,  there's  no  use  in  trying,  so  let's 

give  a  guess — 
I'll  say  twenty  pounds,  and  it  cannot 

be  less. 

"  Twenty  pounds,  I  am  certain,  will 
buy  me  a  cow, 


112 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


Forgetting  her  burden  when  this  she 

had  said, 
The  maid  superciliously  tossed  up  her 

head ; 
When,  alas    for  her  prospects  ! — her 

milk-pail  descended, 
And  so  all  her  schemes  for  the  future 

were  ended. 

This  moral,  I  think,  may  be  safely 

attached : 
Reckon  not  on  your  chickens  before 

they  are  hatched. 

Jeffreys  Taylor. 

THE  CHATTERBOX. 

From  morning  till  night  it  was  Lucy's 
delight 
To  chatter  and  talk  without  stop- 
ping ; 
There  was  not  a  day  but  she  rattled 
away, 
Like  water  for  ever  a-dropping. 

No  matter  at  all  if  the  subjects  were 

small 
•  Or  not  worth  the  trouble  of  saying, 
'Twas  equal  to  her ;  she  would  talking 

prefer 
To  working,  or  reading,  or  playing. 

You'll  think  now,  perhaps,  that  there 
would  have  been  gaps 
If    she    had    not  been   wonderful 
clever — 
That  her  sense  was  so  great,  and  so 
witty  her  pate, 
It  would  be  forthcoming  for  ever ; 

But  that's  quite  absurd !  for  have  you 
not  heard 
That  much  tongue  and  few  brains 
are  connected  ? — 


That  they  are  supposed  to  think  least 
who  talk  most, 
And  their  wisdom  is   always  sus- 
pected ? 

While    Lucy    was    young,   had    she 
bridled  her  tongue 
With  a  little  good  sense  and  exer- 
tion, 
Who  knows  but  she  might  now  have 
been  our  delight, 
Instead  of  our  jest  and  aversion  ? 

Jane  Taylor. 


TRUTHFUL  DOTTIE;   OR,  THE  BROKEN 
.     VASE. 

Nellie  and  Dottie 

Both  hear  mamma  say, 
"  Pray,  from  the  drawing-room 

Keep  away.  ' 

Don't  take  your  toys  there, 

Lest  some  one  should  call ; 
Run  out  in  the  garden 

With  rope,  bat,  and  ball." 
The  garden  is  lovely 

This  bright  summer  day  ; 


LESSONS    OF   LIFE. 


113 


But 'Nellie  and  Dottie 

Too  soon  come  away. 
Into  the  drawing-room 

Dottie  comes  skipping, 
With  her  new  rope 

All  the  furniture  flipping  : 
Down  goes  the  tall  vase, 

So  golden  and  gay, 
Smashed  all  to  pieces. 

"  What  will  mamma  say  ?  " 
Cries  Nell,  with  her  hands  raised. 

"  Oh,  Dottie,  let's  run ; 
They'll  think  it  was  pussy, 

Who  did  it  in  fun." 
Dot  answers,  through  hig  tears, 

"  But,  Nell,  don't  you  see, 
Though  nobody  watched  us, 

God  knows  it  was  me  ? 
Mamma  always  says 

That,  whatever  we  do, 
The  harm's  not  so  great 

If  we  dare  to  be  true. 
So  I'll  go  up  and  tell  her 

It  caught  in  my  rope ; 
Perhaps  she  won't  scold  much — 

At  least,  so  I'll  hope." 
"  That's  right,"  cries  her  mother, 

Who  stands  by  the  door  ; 
"  I  would  rather  ten  vases 

Were  smashed  on  the  floor 
Than  my  children  should  once  break 

The  bright  words  of  truth, 
The  dearest  possession 

Of  age  or  of  youth. 
The  vase  can  be  mended, 

And  scarce  show  a  crack, 
But  a  falsehood  once  spoken 

Will  never  come  back." 
However  much  grieved  for 

By  young  folks  or  old, 
An  untruth  once  uttered 

For  ever  is  told. 

c.  L.  M. 


A  BOY  WHO  TOLD  A  LIE. 

The  mother  looked  pale,  and  her  face 

was  sad ; 
She  seemed  to  have  nothing  to  make 

her  glad ; 
She  silently  sat  with  the  tears  in  her 

eye, 
For  her  dear  little  boy  had  told  a  lie. 

He  was  a  gentle,  affectionate  child, 
His  ways  were  winning,  his  temper 

was  mild ; 
There  was  love  and  joy  in  his  soft  blue 

eye, 
But  the  dear  little  boy  had  told  a  lie. 

He  stood  alone  by  the  window  with- 
in, 

For  he  felt  that  his  soul  was  stained 
with  sin ; 

And  his  mother  could  hear  him  sob 
and  cry, 

Because  he  had  told  her  that  wicked 
lie. 

Then  he  came  and  stood  by  his  moth- 
er's side, 

And  asked  for  a  kiss,  which  she  de- 
nied ; 

While  he  promised,  with  many  a  pen- 
itent sigh, 

That  he  never  would  tell  another  lie. 

So  she  bade  him  before  her  kneel  gen- 
tly down, 
And  took  his  soft  hands  within  her 

own, 
And  she  kissed  his  cheek  as  he  looked 

on  high 
And  prayed  to  be  pardoned  for  telling 

that  lie. 


114 


THE    CHILDREN'S    BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


TO  A  LITTLE  GIRL  THAT  HAS  TOLD  A  LIE. 


And  has  my  darling  told  a  lie  ? 
Did  she  forget  that  God  was  by — 
That  God  who  saw  the  thing  she  did, 
From  whom  no  action  can  be  hid  ? 
Did  she  forget  that  God  could  see 
And  hear,  wherever  she  might  be  ? 

He  made  y©ur  eyes,  and  can  discern 
Whichever  way  you  think  to  turn  ; 
He  made  your  ears,  and  He  can  hear 
When  you  think  nobody  is  near ; 
In  every  place,  by  night  or  day, 
He  watches  all  you  do  and  say. 

Oh,  how  I  wish  you  would  but  try 
To  act  as  shall  not  need  a  lie ! 


And  when  you  wish  a  thing  to  do 
That  has  been  once  forbidden  you, 
Remember  that,  nor  ever  dare 
To  disobey,  for  God  is  there  ! 

Why  should  you  fear  the  truth  to  tell  ? 
Does  falsehood  ever  do  so  well? 
Can  you  be  satisfied  to  know 
There's  something  wrong  to  hide  be- 
low? 
No !  let  your  fault  be  what  it  may, 
To  own  it  is  the  happy  way. 

So  long  as.  you  your  crime  conceal 
You  cannot  light  and  gladsome  feel ! 


LESSONS    OF   LIFE. 


116 


Your  little  heart  will  seem  opprest 
As  if  a  weight  were  on  your  breast ; 
And  e'en  your  mother's  eye  to  meet 
Will  tinge  your  face  with  shame  and 
heat. 

Yes,  God  has  made  your  duty  clear 
By  every  blush,  by  every  fear ; 
And  conscience,  like  an  angel  kind, 
Keeps  watch  to  bring  it  to  your  mind : 
Its  friendly  warnings  ever  heed, 
And  neither  tell  a  lie — nor  need. 

Jane  Taylor. 

NOT  READY  FOR  SCHOOL. 

Pray,  where  is  my  hat?     It  is  taken 
away, 
And  my  shoe-strings  are  all  in  a 
knot ; 
I  can't  find  a  thing  where  it  should  be 
to-day, 
Though  I've  hunted  in  every  spot. 

Do,  Rachel,  just  look  for  my  atlas  up 

stairs — 
.    My  iEsop  is  somewhere  there  too  ; 
And,   sister,  just   brush   down   these 

troublesome  hairs, 
And,  mother,  just  fasten  my  shoe. 

And,  sister,  beg  father  to  write  an  ex- 
cuse ; — 
But  stop  !  he  will  only  say  "  No," 
And  go  on  with  a  smile  and  keep  read- 
ing the  news, 
While  everything  bothers  me  so. 

My  satchel  is  heavy  and  ready  to  fall ; 
This  old  pop-gun  is  breaking  my 
map; 
I'll  have  nothing  to  do  with  the  pop- 
gun or  ball — 
There's  no  playing  for  such  a  poor 
chap. 


The  town-clock  will  strike  in  a  min- 
ute, I  fear, 
Then  away  to  the  foot  I  will  sink ; 
There !  look  at  my  Carpenter  tumbled 
down  here, 
And    my    Worcester   covered   with 
ink. 

I  wish  I'd  not  lingered  at  breakfast  the 
last, 
Though  the  toast  and  the  butter  were 
fine; 
I  think  that  our   Edward   must  eat 
pretty  fast, 
To   be   off    when    I    haven't   done 
mine. 

Now  Edward  and  Henry  protest  they 
won't  wait, 
And   beat  on  the  door  with  their 
sticks  ; 
I  suppose  they  will  say  /  was  dressing 
too  late; 
To-morrow,  VU  be  up  at  six. 

Caroline  Gilmax. 


THE  BOY'S  COMPLAINT  ABOUT 
BUTTER. 

Oh,  mother,  won't  you  speak  to  Kate  ? 

I  have  not  had  enough  to  eat ; 
And  when  she  spreads  a  little  bread, 

She   thinks   she  gives   me   such   a 
treat, 

I  only  wish  I  was  a  man. 

To  have  my  butter  an  inch  thick. 
And  not  be  talking  all  the  time 

How  this  and  that  will  make  me 
sick. 

Poor  little  boys  are  sadly  used ; 

They  cannot  have  the  thing  they 
wish, 


116 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


While  grown-up  people   help   them- 


selves 
To  what  they  like  from 


As  soon  as  I  become  a  man 
I'll  have  a  pie  as  tall  as  you. 

With  door  and  windows  like  a  house, 
And  lined  with  plums  all  through 
and  through. 

And  I'll  go  in  Avhene'er  I  choose, 
And  sit  as  snug  as  Jacky  Horner ; 

And  even  Katie,  though  she's  cross, 
Shall  sometimes  come  and  eat  a  cor- 
ner. 

My  windows  all,  with  jelly  made, 
Like  Boston  glass  shall  glisten  bright, 

And  sugar-candy  for  the  frames 
At  every  turn  shall  meet  my  sight. 

My  floors  shall  be  of  ginger-bread, 
Because   that's    pretty    hard,    you 
know, 

Sanded  all  o'er  with  sugar-plums, 
Boiling  about  where'er  I  go. 

And,  mother,  Kate,  my  cellaret 
Shall  be  all  butter  shaped  with  ice, 

And  then  we'll  see  if  I  must  fret 
Because  I  want  a  little  slice. 

And,  mother — oh,  she's  gone  away  ! 

And,  Katie — what !   you've  left  me 
too  ? 
I  won't  stand  talking  to  the  walls, 

But  go  and  find  some  work  to  do. 

Caroline  Gilman. 


IDLE  ANNA. 

Oh,  Anna,  this  will  never  do ; 

This  work  is  sadly  done,  my  dear ; 
And  then  so  little  of  it,  too  ! 

You  have  not  taken  pains,  I  fear. 


Oh  no,  your  work  has  been  forgotten  ; 
Indeed,  you  hardly  thought  of  that : 
every  dish:   (  I  saw  you  roll  your  spool  of  cotton 
About  the  floor  to  please  the  cat. 


See,  here  are  stitches  straggling  wide  ; 

And  others  stretching  down  so  far ; 
I'm  very  sure  you  have  not  tried 

In  this,  at  least,  to  please  mamma. 

The  little  girl  who  will  not  sew 
Must  neither  be  allowed  to  play ; 

And  now  I  hope,  my  love,  that  you 
Will  take  more  pains  another  day. 


THE  LAZY  BOY. 

The  lazy  lad  !  and  what's  his  name  ? 

I  should  not  like  to  tell ; 
But  don't  you  think  it  is  a  shame 

That  he  can't  read  or  spell? 

He'd  rather  swing  upon  a  gate, 

Or  paddle  in  the  brook, 
Than  take  his  pencil  and  his  slate. 

Or  try  to  con  his  book. 

There !   see,  he's  lounging  down  the 
street, 

His  hat  without  a  rim  ; 
He  rather  drags  than  lifts  his  feet — 

His  face  unwashed  and  grim. 

He's  lolling  now  against  a  post, 
But  if  you've  seen  him  once, 

You'll  know  the  lad  amongst  a  host 
For  what  he  is — a  dunce. 

Don't   ask    me   what's    the    urchin's 

name, — 

I  do  not  choose  to  tell ; 

But  this  you'll  know — it  is  the  same 

As  his  who  does  not  blush  for  shame 

That  he  don't  read  or  spell. 

y.  c. 


LFSSOXS    OF   LIFE. 


117 


k!_  m  :L£  i^  A^\l_Si^S^ 


ALL  HAVE  WORK  TO. DO. 

A  child  went  wandering  through  a 
wood 

Upon  a  summer  day ; 
She  hoped  to  meet  some  pretty  thing 

To  join  her  in  her  play. 

The  cloudless  sky  above  was  blue, 
The  grass  beneath  was  green, 

And  all  around  were  lovely  flowers, 
The  brightest  ever  seen. 

A  honey-bee  went  humming  by — 
11  Stay,  little  bee  !"  she  cried, 

"  Oh,  do  come   back  and   play  with 
me." 
And  thus  the  bee  replied : 

"  I  cannot  stay,  I  must  away, 

And  gather  in  my  store, 
For  winter  drear  will  soon  be  here, 

When  I  can  work  no  more."' 

She  heard  a  pigeon  cooing  soft 
High  in  a  bough  above — 


"  Come  down,  and  play  a  while  with 
me, 
My  pretty,  gentle  dove/' 

"  I  cannot  come  and  play  with  thee, 
For  I  must  guard  my  nest, 

And  keep  my  sleeping  children  warm 
Beneath  my  downy  breast." 

She  saw  a  squirrel  gathering  nuts 

Upon  a  tall  beech  tree — 
"  I  love  to  see  you  bound  and  leap ; 

Come  down,  and  play  with  me." 

"  I  dare  not  play,  I  must  away, ' 
And  quickly  homeward  hie  ; 

Were  I  to  stay,  my  little  ones 
For  want  of  food  must  die." 

She  came  unto  a  stream  that  leaped 
Between  its  rocky  banks — 

"  Stay,  pretty  stream,  and  play  with 
me, 
And  vou  shall  have  my  thanks." 


118 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


The  stream  replied,  while  in  the  pool 

A  moment  it  stood  still, 
'{ I  cannot  play,  I  must  away 

And  drive  the  village  mill." 

The  child  sat  down  upon  a  stone, 

And  hung  her  little  head  ; 
She  wept  a  while,  and  sobbed  a  while, 

Then  to  herself  she  said, 

"  The  stream,  the  squirrel,  dove,  and 

bee 

Have  all  got  work  to  do ; 

I  must  not  play  my  hours  away — 

I  must  be  busy  too." 

r.  p.  s. 

LAZY  JANE. 

Who  was  that,  dear  mamma,  who  ate 
Her  breakfast  here  this  morn, 

With  tangled  hair  and  ragged  shoes, 
And  gown  and  apron  torn  ? 

"  They  call  her  Lazy  Jane,  my  dear ; 

She  begs  her  bread  all  day, 
And  gets  a  lodging  in  a  barn 

At  night,  among  the  hay ; 

"  For  when  she  was  a  little  girl 
She  loved  to  play  too  well ; 

At  school  she  would  not  mind   her 
book, 
Nor  learn  to  read  and  spell. 

" '  Dear  Jane,'  her  mother  oft  would 
say, 

'  Pray  learn  to  work  and  read  ; 
Then  you'll  be  able  when  you're  grown 

To  earn  your  clothes  and  bread.' 

"  But  lazy  Jenny  did  not  care — 
She'd  neither  knit  nor  sew  ; 

To  romp  with  naughty  girls  and  boys 
Was  all  that  she  would  do. 


"  So  she  grew  up  a  very  dunce, 
And  when  her  parents  died 

She  knew  not  how  to  teach  a  school, 
Nor  work,  if  she  had  tried. 

"  And  now,  an  idle  vagabond, 
She  strolls  about  the  streets, 

And  not  a  friend  can  Jenny  find 
In  anj'  one  she  meets. 

"  And  now,  my  child,  should  you  ne- 
glect 

Your  book  or  work  again, 
Or  play  when  you  should  be  at  school, 

Remember  Lazy  Jane." 

"  Lullabies  and  Ditties." 

THE  SLUGGARD. 

'Tis  the  voice  of  the  sluggard:  I  heard 

him  complain, 
"  You  have  waked  me  too  soon,  I  must 

slumber  again." 
As  the  door  on  its  hinges,  so  he,  on  his 

bed, 
Turns  his  sides  and  his  shoulders,  and 

his  heavy  head. 

"  A  little  more  sleep,  and  a  little  more 

slumber  ;" 
Thus  he  wastes  half  his  days,  and  his 

hours  without  number ; 
And  when  he  gets  up  he  sits  folding 

his  hands, 
Or  walks  about  sauntering,  or  trifling 

he  stands. 

I  passed  by  his  garden,  and  saw  the 
wild  brier, 

The  thorn,  and  the  thistle  grow  broad- 
er and  higher : 

The  clothes  that  hang  on  him  are 
turning  to  rags, 

And  his  money  still  wastes,  till  he 
starves,  or  he  begs. 


LESSONS    OF  LIFE. 


119 


I  made  him  a  visit,  still  hoping  to 
find 

He'd  taken  better  care  for  improving 
his  mind ; 

He  told  me  his  dreams,  talked  of  eat- 
ing and  drinking ; 

But  he  scarce  reads  his  Bible,  and 
never  loves  thinking. 

Said  I  then  to  my  heart,  "  Here's  a 
lesson  for  me  : 

That  man's  but  a  picture  of  what  I 
might  be ; 

But  thanks  to  my  friends  for  their 
care  in  my  breeding, 

Who  taught  me  by  times  to  love  work- 
ing and  reading ! 

Isaac  Watts. 


OVER  THE  FENCE. 

BOY. 

Over  the  fence  is  a  garden  fair — 
How  I  would  love  to  be  master  there  ! 
All  that  I  lack  is  a  mere  pretence — 
I  could  leap  over  the  low  white  fence. 

CONSCIENCE. 

This    is   the   way   that   crimes   com- 
mence ; 
Sin  and  sorrow  are  over  the  fence. 

BOY. 

Over  the  fence  I  can  toss  my  ball, 
Then  I  can  go  in  for  it — that  is  all ; 
Picking  an  apple  up  near  a  tree 
Would  not  be  really  a  theft,  you  see. 

CONSCIENCE. 

This  is  a  falsehood — a  weak  pretence ; 
Sin  and  sorrow  are  over  the  fence. 


BOY. 

Whose   is   the   voice  that   speaks   so 

plain  ? 
Twice   have   I   heard   it,  and  not  in 

vain. 
Ne'er  will  I  venture  to  look  that  way, 
Lest  I  shall  do  as  I  planned  to-day. 

CONSCIENCE. 

This  is  the  way  that  all  crimes  com- 
mence, 
Coveting  that  which  is  over  the  fence. 


PRINCIPLE  PUT  TO  THE  TEST. 

A  youngster  at  school,  more  sedate 

than  the  rest, 
Had   once   his   integrity   put   to   the 

test : 
His  comrades  had  plotted  an  orchard 

to  rob, 
And  asked  him  to  go  and  assist  in  the 

job. 

He  was  very  much  shocked,  and  an- 
swered, "  Oh  no ! 

What,  rob  our  poor  neighbor !  I  pray 
you  don't  go ; 

Besides,  the  man's  poor,  and  his  or- 
chard's his  bread ; 

Then  think  of  his  children,  for  they 
must  be  fed." 

"  You  speak  very  fine,  and  you  look 

very  grave, 
But  apples  we  want,  and  the  apples 

we'll  have ; 
If  you  will  go  with  us,  we'll  give  you 

a  share, 
If  not,  you  shall  have  neither  apple 

nor  pear." 


120 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


They  spoke,  and  Tom  pondered :  "  I 

see  they  will  go; 
Poor  man  !  what  a  pity  to  injure  him 

so ! 
Poor  man  !  I  would  save  him  his  fruit 

if  I  could, 
But  my  staying  behind  will  do  him 

no  good. 

"  If  this  matter  depended  alone  upon 

me, 
His    apples     might    hang    till    they 

dropped  from  the  tree ; 
But  since  they  will  take  them,  I  think 

I'll  go  too; 
He  will  lose  none  by  me,  though  I  do 

get  a  few." 

His  scruples  thus  silenced,  Tom  felt 
more  at  ease, 

And  went  with  his  comrades  the  ap- 
ples to  seize ; 

He  blamed  and  protested,  but  joined 
in  the  plan ; 

He  shared  in  the  plunder,  but  pitied 
the  man. 

Conscience  slumbered  a  while,  but 
soon  woke  in  his  breast, 

And  in  language  severe  the  delinquent 
addressed : 

"  With  such  empty  and  selfish  pre- 
tences away ! 

By  your  actions  you're  judged,  be  your 
speech  what  it  may." 

William  Cowper. 


WILLIE  AND  THE  APPLE. 

Little  Willie  stood  under  an  apple 

tree  old ; 
The  fruit  was  all  shining  with  crimson 

and  gold, 


Hanging    temptingly    low;    how    he 

longed  for  a  bite, 
Though   he   knew  if  he  took  one  it 

wouldn't  be -right ! 

Said  he,  "  I  don't  see  why  my  father 
should  say, 

'  Don't  touch  the  old  apple  tree,  Wil- 
lie, to-day ;' 

I  shouldn't  have  thought — now  they're 
hanging  so  low — 

When  I  asked  for  just  one,  he  should 
answer  me  '  No.' 

"  He  would  never  find  out  if  I  took  but 

just  one, 
And  they  do  look  so  good,  shining  out 

in  the  sun ; 
There  are  hundreds  and  hundreds,  and 

he  wouldn't  miss 
So  paltry  a  little  red  apple  as  this." 

He  stretched  forth  his  hand,  but  a  low, 

mournful  strain 
Came   wandering   dreamily  over   his 

brain ; 
In  his  bosom  a  beautiful  harp  had 

long  laid, 
That  the   angel   of  conscience   quite 

frequently  played. 

And  he  sung,  "  Little  Willie,  beware, 
oh  beware  ! 

Your  father  has  gone,  but  your  Maker 
is  there ; 

How  sad  you  would  feel  if  you  heard 
the  Lord  say, 

'  This  dear  little  boy  stole  an  apple  to- 
day ' !" 

Then   Willie   turned   round,  and,  as 

still  as  a  mouse, 
Crept  slowly  and  carefully  into  the 

house ; 


LESSONS    OF   LIFE. 


121 


In  his  own  little  chamber  he  knelt 
down  to  pray 

That  the  Lord  would  forgive  him,  and 
please  not  to  say, 

"  Little  Willie  almost  stole  an  apple  to- 
day." 

M.  A.  D. 

THE  APPLE  TREE. 

Old  John  had  an  apple  tree,  healthy 

and  green, 
Which  bore  the  best  codlings  that  ever 

were  seen, 
So  juicy,  so  mellow,  and  red  ; 
And  when  they  were  ripe  he  disposed 

of  his  store 
To  children  or  any  who  passed  by  his 

door, 
To  buy  him  a  morsel  of  bread. 


Little   Dick,    his  next   neighbor,   one 

often  might  see 
With   longing   eye  viewing   this  fine 

apple  tree, 
And  wishing  a  codling  might  fall. 
One  day,  as  he  stood  in  the  heat  of  the 

sun, 
He  began  thinking  whether  he  might 

not  take  one, 
And  then  he  looked  over  the  wall. 


And  as  he  again  cast  his  eye  on  the 

tree, 
He  said  to  himself,  "  Oh,  how  nice 

they  would  be, 
So  cool  and  refreshing  to-day  ! 
The  tree  is  so  full,  and  one  only  I'll 

take  ; 
And  John  cannot  see  if  I  give  it  a 

shake, 
And  nobody  is  in  the  way." 


But  stop,  little  boy  ;  take  your  hand 

from  the  bough  ; 
Remember,  though  John  cannot  see 

you  just  now, 
And  no  one  to  chide  you  is  nigh, 
There  is  One  who   by  night,  just  as 

well  as  by  day, 
Can  see  all  }Tou  do,  and  can  hear  all 

you  sny, 
From  His  glorious  throne  in  the  sky. 

Oh,  then,  little  boy,  come  away  from 

the  tree, 
Lest  tempted  to  this  wicked  act  you 

should  be. 
'Twere  better  to  starve  than  to  steal ; 
For  the  great  God,  who  even  through 

darkness  can  look, 
Writes  down  every  crime  we  commit 

in  His  book, 
Nor  forgets  what  we  try  to  conceal. 

Jane  Taylor. 


THE  STOLEN  TOP. 

"  Edward,  come  here ;  how  pale  you 
are ! 

What  makes  you  look  so  wild  ? 
And  you've  been  crying  sadly  too ; 

What's  happened  to  my  child  '?" 

"  You  know,  mamma,  you   sent  me 
down 

To  neighbor  Brightman's  shop 
With  ninepence  in  my  hand,  to  buy 

A  little  humming-top. 

"  Well,  neighbor   Brightman  handed 
down 

A  dozen  tops  or  more, 
For  me  to  make  a  choice  of  one  ; 

Then  stepped  toward  the  door. 


122 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY 


"  So  then  I  caught  one  slyly  up, 

And  in  my  pocket  slid  it ; 
And  no  one  would  suspect  the  thing, 

So  cunningly  I  hid  it. 

"  And  so  I  bought  another  top 
And  laid  my  ninepence  down, 

Then  laughed  to  think  I  owned  them 
both,  i 

But  paid  for  only  one. 

"  But  when  I  turned  and  left  the  shop 

I  felt  most  dreadfully, 
For  all  the  time  I  was  in  fear 

That  he  would  follow  me. 

"  Surely,  thought  I,  hell  find  it  out ; 

The  angry  man  will  come, 
And  I  shall  never  see  mamma, 

And  never  more  go  home. 

"  He'll  tie  a  rope  around  my  neck, 

And  hang  me  up  on  high  ; 
And  leave  the  little  wicked  thief 

To  hang  there  till  he  die. 

"  And  then  I  screamed,  and   ran  so 
fast 

A  down  the  nearest  lane  ; 
And  then  I  turned  and  looked  behind, 

Then  screamed  and  ran  again. 

"Trembling,    at   last   I   reached    my 
home, 

And  straight  I  went  to  bed, 
But  oh,  in  such  a  shocking  fright 

That  I  was  almost  dead. 

"  No  rest,  nor  comfort  could  I  get, 

And  not  a  wink  of  sleep  : 
All  I  could  do  was  toss  and  turn 

From  side  to  side,  and  weep. 


"  And  what  was  worst  of  all,  mamma, 
I  could  not  say  my  prayers  ; 

And  then  I  thought  my  heart  would 
burst, 
And  I  was  drowned  in  tears. 

" '  No,  no,'  I  cried ;  '  God  will  not  hear 

A  child  so  wicked  pray  ; 
I  dare  not  hope  He'll  let  me  live 

To  see  another  day.' 

"Thus    did    I   mourn   till   morning's 
dawn, 

And  yet  found  no  relief; 
For  oh,  what  comfort  can  there  be, 

Or  pleasure,  for  a  thief?" 

"  Go,  my  poor,  wretched,  guilty  child — 
Go,  take  the  top  you  stole, 

And  give  it  to  the  man  you've  wronged. 
And  own  to  him  the  whole. 

"  Then  on  your  knees  before  your  God 
Confess  how  wrong  you've  been  ; 

Beg  Him  to  save  you,  and  forgive 
This  great  and  dreadful  sin. 

"  And  never,  while  you  live,  again 

To  such  a  deed  consent, 
Lest  He  should  take  away  your  life 

Before  you  can  repent." 

"  Lullabies  and  Ditties." 


WHAT  THE  CHOIR  SANG  ABOUT  THE 
NEW  BONNET. 

A  foolish  little  maiden  bought  a  fool- 
ish little  bonnet, 

With  a  ribbon  and  a  feather  and  a  bit 
of  lace1  upon  it ; 

And  that  the  other  maidens  of  the  lit- 
tle town  might  know  it, 

She  thought  she'd  go  to  meeting  the 
next  Sunday,  just  to  show  it. 


LESSONS    OF  LIFE. 


123 


But  though  the  little  bonnet  was  scarce  I  And  the  little  head  that's  filled  with 

larger  than  a  dime,  silly  airs 

The  getting  of  it  settled  proved  to  be  \  Will  never  get  a  blessing  from  ser- 


a  work  of  time  ; 
So,  when  it  was  fairty  tied,  all  the  bells 

had  stopped  their  ringing, 
And  when  she  came  to  meeting,  sure 

enough,  the  folks  were  singing. 

So  this  foolish  little  maiden  stood  and 

waited  at  the  door, 
And  she  shook  her  ruffles  out  behind, 

and  smoothed  them  down  before. 
"  Hallelujah  !    hallelujah  !"   sang  the 

choir  above  her  head  ; 
"Hardly  knew  you !  hardly  knew  you !" 

were  the  words  she  thought  they 

said. 


This  made  the  little  maiden  feel  so 

very,  very  cross 
That  she  gave  her  little  mouth  a  twist 

and  her  head  a  little  toss. 
For  she  thought  the  very  hymn  they 

sang  was  all  about  her  bonnet, 
With  a  ribbon  and  a  feather  and  a  bit 

of  lace  upon  it. 

And  she  did  not  wait  to  listen  to  the 

sermon  or  the  prayer, 
But  pattered   down  the  silent  street 

and  hurried  up  the  stair, 
Till  she'd  reached  her  little  bureau, 

and  in  a  bandbox  on  it 
Had  hidden,  safe  from  critic's  eye,  her 

foolish  little  bonnet. 

Which  proves,  my  little  maidens,  that 

each  of  you  will  find 
In  every  Sabbath  service  but  an  echo 

of  your  mind  ; 


mons  or  from  prayers. 

Miss  Hammond. 


THE  TWO  TRAVELLERS. 

There  went  two  travellers  forth  one 

day ; 
To  a  beautiful   mountain  they  took 

their  way — 
The  one  an  idle  hour  to  employ, 
The  other  to  see,  to  learn,  to  enjoy. 


And    when    from    their    journeying 

homeward  they  came, 
There  crowded   around  them  master 

and  dame, 
And  a  storm  of  questions  from  great 

and  small : 
"  Now,  what  have  you  seen  ? — Pray 

tell  us  all." 


The  first  one  yawned  as  he  answer 

made. 
"  Seen ? — Why,  little  enough,"  he  said : 
"  Trees  and  meadows  and  brook  and 

grove, 
And  song-birds  around,  and  sunshine 

above." 


The  other  gave  smiling  the  same  re- 
ply > 

But  with  brightening  face  and  flash- 
ing eye : 

"  Oh,  trees  and  meadows,  and  brook 
and  grove, 

And  song-birds  around,  and  sunshine 
above." 


124 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


AK  171  V^ 


If1:'   I  C%to,v  V/'V-T^X 


THE  USE  OF  SIGHT. 

"  What,  Charles  !  returned  ?"  papa  ex- 
claimed ; 

"  How  short  your  walk  has  been  ! 
But  Thomas — Julia — where  are  they? 

Come,  tell  me  what  you've  seen." 

"  So  tedious,  stupid,  dull  a  walk," 
Said  Charles,  "  I'll  go  no  more ; 

First  stopping  here,  then  lagging  there, 
O'er  this  and  that  to  pore. 

"  I  crossed  the  fields  near  Woodland 
House, 

And  just  went  up  the  hill ; 
Then  by  the  river-side  came  down, 

Near  Mr.  Fairplay's  mill." 


Now  Tom  and  Julia  both  ran  in : 
"  Oh,  dear  papa  !"  said  the}^, 

"  The  sweetest  walk  we  both  have  had ! 
Oh,  what  a  pleasant  clay  ! 

"  Near  Woodland  House  we  crossed 
the  fields, 
And  by  the  mill  we  came." 
"  Indeed  !"   exclaimed   papa,   "  how's 
this  ? 
Your  brother  took  the  same, 

"  But  very  dull  he  found  the  walk. 

What  have  you  there  ?     Let's  see : 
Come,   Charles,  enjoy  this  charming 
treat, 

As  new  to  you  as  me." 


LESSONS   OF   LIFE. 


125 


"  First  look,  papa,  at  this  small  branch, 

Which  on  a  tall  oak  grew, 
And  by  its  slimy  berries  white 

The  mistletoe  we  knew. 

"  A  bird  all  green  ran  up  a  tree — 

A  woodpecker  we  call — 
Who  with  his  strong  bill  wounds  the 
bark 

To  feed  on  insects  small. 

"And  many  lapwings  cried  'peewit,' 

And  one  among  the  rest 
Pretended  lameness  to  decoy 

Us  from  her  lowly  nest. 

"  Young  starlings,  martins,  swallows, 
all, 

Such  lively  flocks  and  gay  ! 
A  heron,  too,  which  caught  a  fish, 

And  with  it  flew  away. 

"  This  bird  we  found,  a  kingfisher ; 

Though    dead,    his     plumes     how 
bright ! 
Do  have  him  stuffed,  my  dear  papa ; 

'Twill  be  a  charming  sight. 

"  When  reached  the  heath,  how  wide 
the  space ! 
The  air  how  fresh  and  sweet ! 
We  plucked  these  flowers  and  differ- 
ent heaths, 
The  fairest  we  could  meet. 

"  The  distant  prospect  we  admired, 
The  mountains  far  and  blue ; 

A  mansion  here,  a  cottage  there  ; 
And  see  the  sketch  we  drew. 

"  A  splendid  sight  we  next  beheld — 

The  glorious  setting  sun  ; 
In  clouds  of  crimson,  purple,  gold, 

His  daily  race  was  done." 


"  True   taste   with    knowledge,"   said 
papa, 

"  By  observation's  gained  ; 
You've  both  used  well  the  gift  of  sight, 

And  thus  reward  obtained. 

"  My  Julia  in  this  desk  will  find 
A  drawing-box  quite  new ; 

And,  Thomas,  now  this  telescope 
I  think  is  quite  your  due. 

"  And  toys,  or  still  more  useful  gifts, 
For  Charles  too  shall  be  bought 

When  he  can  see  the  works  of  God, 
And  prize  them  as  he  ought." 

Jane  Taylor. 


THE  STORY  OF  HANS, 

SHOWING  THE  FOLLY  OF  A  BOY'S  TRAD- 
ING  AND   SWAPPING. 

With  seven  years'  wages  on  his  back, 
Hans,  very  happy,  took  his  course, 

But  met  a  traveller  on  the  track, 
And   with    his    gold   he   bought  a 
horse. 

At  riding  Hans  was  not  expert, 

Which  soon  enough  his  horse  found 
out, 
And  tossed  his  rider  in  the  dirt ; 
Hans  kicked   his   feet   and  turned 
about, 

And  saw  a  man  who  led  a  cow  ; 

Quick  with   him  Hans  a  bargain 
made ; 
Off  the  man  trotted  on  his  horse ; 

Hans  thought  it  was  a  lucky  trade. 

But  when  to  get  some  milk  he  tried, 
And  found  the  beast  quite  dry,  it 
threw 

Poor  Hans  into  a  dreadful  pet, 
And  much  he  puzzled  what  to  do. 


126 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


But  soon  a  man  he  saw  come  near 
Who  drove  a  pig,  and  quickly  he 

Changed  off  his  cow,  and  with  the  pig 
Trotted  along  quite  merrily. 

But  pigs  are  awkward  things  to  drive, 
Which  Hans  found  out,  and  when 
he  met 

A  man  who  drove  a  goose,  he  quick 
A  bargain  made,  and  ceased  to  fret. 

He  thought  his  goose  nice  eggs  would 
lay; 
But  just  that  hour  a  man  came  by 
With  a  nice  grindstone  in  his  hand  ; 
Hans  thought  with  this  his  luck  to 
try. 

In    journeying   round    and   grinding 
knives, 
With  driving  he   should   have   no 
pain ; 
And  with  his  stone  he  thought  he 
soon 
Might    business    find   and   money 
gain. 

But  when  a  stream  he  met,  and  knelt 
To   drink   from    out    the   pleasant 
brook, 

Down  in  the  water  rolled  his  stone : 
Hans  gave  his  treasure  one  sad  look, 

Then,  up  he  jumped,  free  from  all  care, 
And  tossed  his  hat  and  danced  for 

joy. 

And  off  to  work  again  he  went, 
A  careless,  but  a  hungry  boy. 

Stories  and  Rhymes  for  Children. 


THE  HOLIDAYS. 

"  Ah  !  don't  you  remember  'tis  almost 
December, 
And  soon  will  the  holidays  come  ? 


Oh,  'twill  be  so  funny !  I've  plenty  of 
money ; 
I'll  buy  me  a  sword  and  a  drum." 

Thus  said  little  Harry,  unwilling  to 
tarry, 
Impatient  from  school  to  depart ; 
But  we  shall    discover  this   holiday- 
lover 
Knew  little  what  was  in  his  heart. 

For   when  on  returning    he  gave  up 

his  learning, 

Away  from  his  sums  and  his  books, 

Though   playmates   surrounded    and 

sweetmeats  abounded, 

Chagrin  still  appeared  in  his  looks. 

Though  first  they  delighted,  his  toys 
were  now  slighted, 
And  thrown  away  out  of  his  sight ; 
He  spent  every  morning  in  stretching 
and  yawning, 
Yet  went  to  bed  weary  at  night. 

He  had  not  that  treasure  which  really 
makes  pleasure 
(A  secret  discovered  by  few) ; 
You'll  take  it  for  granted  more  play- 
things he  wanted  : 
Oh  no  ;  it  was  something  to  do. 

We  must  have  employment  to  give  us 
enjoyment, 
And  pass  the  time  cheerfully  aAvay, 
And  study  and  reading  give  pleasure 
exceeding 
The  pleasures  of  toys  and  of  play. 

To  school  now  returning,  to  study  and 
learning 

With  eagerness  Harry  applied ; 
He  felt  no  aversion  to  books  or  exertion, 

Nor  yet  for  the  holidays  sighed 

Jane  Taylor. 


LESSONS  OF   LIFE. 


127 


A  NEW  YEAR'S  GIFT. 

A    charming    present    comes     from 
town — 

A  baby-house  so  neat, 
With  kitchen,  parlor,  dining-room, 

And  chambers  all  complete. 

A  gift  to  Emma  and  to  Rose, 

From  grandpapa  it  came ; 
The  little  Rosa  smiled  delight, 

And  Emma  did  the  same. 

The}7  eagerly  examined  all ; 

The  furniture  was  gay ; 
And  in  the  rooms  they  placed  their 
dolls 

When  dressed  in  fine  array. 

At  night  their  little  family 

Must  tenderly  be  fed, 
And  then,  when  dollies  were  undressed, 

They  all  were  put  to  bed. 

Thus  Rose  and   Emma  passed  each 
hour 
Devoted  to  their  play, 


And  long  were  cheerful,  happy,  kind : 
No  cross  disputes  had  they ; 

Till  Rose  in  baby-house  would  change 
The  chairs  which  were  below : 

"  This  carpet  they  would  better  suit ; 
I  think  I'll  have  it  so." 

"  No,  no,  indeed,"  her  sister  said  ; 

"  I'm  older,  Rose,  than  you ; 
And  I'm  the  mistress,  you  the  maid, 

And  what  I  bid  must  do." 

The  quarrel  grew  to  such  a  height 
Mamma  she  heard  the  noise, 

And  coming  in  beheld  the  floor 
All  strewed  with  broken  toys. 

"  Oh  fie,  my  Emma !  fie,  my  Rose ! 

Say,  what  is  this  about  ? 
Remember  this  is  New  Year's  Day, 

And  both  are  going  out." 

Now  Betty  calls  the  little  girls 
To  come  up  stairs  and  dress  ;. 

They  still  dispute  with  muttered  taunts. 
And  anger  they  express. 


128 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


But,  just  prepared  to  leave  their  room, 
•    Persisting  yet  in  strife, 
Rose  sickening  fell  on  Betty's  lap, 
As  if  devoid  of  life. 

Mamma  appeared  at  Betty's  call, 

John  for  the  doctor  goes, 
And  some  disease  of  dangerous  kind 

Its  symptoms  soon  disclose. 

"  But  though  I  stay,  my  Emma,  you 
May  go  and  spend  the  day." 

"  Oh  no,  mamma,"  replied  the  child, 
"  I  must  with  Rosa  stay. 

"  Beside  my  sister's  bed  I'll  sit, 
And  watch  her  with  such  care ; 

No  pleasure  can  I  e'er  enjoy 
Till  she  my  pleasure  share. 

"  How  silly  now  seems  our  dispute  ! 

Not  one  of  us  she  knows ; 
How  pale   she  looks !   how  hard  she 
breathes ! 

Alas  !  my  pretty  Rose  !" 

Jane  Taylor. 


LITTLE  BELL. 

He  prayeth  well,  who  loveth  well 
Both  man  and  bird  and  beast. 

Ancient  Mariner. 

Piped  the  blackbird  on  the  beechwood 

spray  : 
"  Pretty  maid,  slow  wandering  this  way , 

What's  your  name  ?"  quoth  he — 
"  What's   your  name  ?   Oh   stop  and 

straight  unfold, 
Pretty  maid  with  showery  curls   of 
gold,"— 
"  Little  Bell,"  said  she. 

Little    Bell    sat    down   beneath    the 

rocks — 
Tossed    aside    her  gleaming    golden 

locks — 


"  Bonny  bird,"  quoth  she, 
"  Sing  me  your  best  song  before  I  go." 
"  Here's  the  very  finest  song  I  know, 

Little  Bell,"  said  he. 

And  the  blackbird  piped ;  you  never 

heard 
Half  so  gay  a  song  from  any  bird — 

Full  of  quips  and  wiles, 
Now  so  round  and  rich,  now  soft  and 

slow, 
All  for  love  of  that  sweet  face  below, 
Dimpled  o'er  with  smiles. 

And  the  while  the  bonny*bird  did  pour 
His  full  heart  out  freely  o'er  and  o'er 

'Neath  the  morning  skies, 
In  the  little  childish  heart  below 
All  the  sweetness  seemed  to  grow  and 

grow, 
And  shine  forth  in  happy  overflow 

From  the  blue,  bright  eyes. 

Down  the  dell  she  tripped  and  through 

the  glade, 
Peeped   the   squirrel   from   the  hazel 

shade, 
And  from  out  the  tree 
Swung  and  leajjed,  and  frolicked,  void 

of  fear, — 
While  bold  blackbird  piped  that  all 

might  hear — 
"  Little  Bell,"  piped  he. 

Little  Bell  sat  down  amid  the  fern — 
"  Squirrel,  squirrel,  to  your   task  re- 
turn— 
Bring  me  nuts,"  quoth  she. 
Up,  away  the  frisky  squirrel  hies — 
Golden   wood-lights   glancing   in   his 
eyes — 
And  adown  the  tree, 
Great  ripe  nuts,  kissed  brown  by  July 

sun, 
In  the  little  lap  dropped  one  by  one — 


LESSONS    OF   LIFE. 


129 


Hark,  how  blackbird  pipes  to  see  the 
fun! 
"  Happy  Bell !"  pipes  he. 

Little  Bell  looked  up  and  down  the 
glade — 

"Squirrel,    squirrel,     if    you're     not 
afraid, 
Come  and  share  with  me !" 

Down  came  squirrel  eager  for  his  fare — 

Down  came   bonny  blackbird,   I  de- 
clare ; 

Little  Bell  gave  each  his  honest  share — 
Ah  the  merry  three  ! 

And  the  while  these  frolic  playmates 
twain 

Piped    and    frisked    from    bough    to 
bough  again, 
'Neath  the  morning  skies, 

In  the  little  childish  heart  below 

All  the  sweetness  seemed  to  grow  and 
grow, 

And  shine  out  in  happy  overflow 
From  her  blue,  bright  eyes. 

By   her  snow-white   cot   at   close   of 

day 
Knelt  sweet  Bell,  with  folded  palms  to 
pray — 
Very  calm  and  clear 
Rose  the  praying  voice  to  where,  un- 
seen, 
In  blue  heaven,  an  angel  shape  serene 

Paused  a  while  to  hear — 
'"What  good  child  is  this,"  the  angel 

said, 
"That  with  happy  heart,  beside  her 
bed, 
Prays  so  lovingly?" 
Low  and  soft,  oh  !  very  low  and  soft, 
Crooned  the  blackbird  in  the  orchard 
croft, 
"  Bell,  dear  Bell !"  crooned  he. 


"  Whom    God's   creatures    love,"   the 
angel  fair 

Murmured,  "  God  doth  bless  with  an- 
gels' care ; 
Child,  thy  bed  shall  be 

Folded   safe  from  harm — Love  deep 
and  kind 

Shall   watch  around  and  leave  good 
gifts  behind, 
Little  Bell,  for  thee !" 

T.  Westwood. 


VACATION. 

Oh,  master,  no  more  of  your  lessons ! 

For  a  season  we  bid  them  good-bye, 
And  turn  to  the  manifold  teachings 

Of  ocean,  and  forest,  and  sky. 
We    must    plunge    into    billow   and 
breaker, 

The  fields  we  must  ransack  anew. 
And  again  must  the   sombre  woods 
echo 

The  glee  of  our  merry-voiced  crew. 

From  teacher's  and  preacher's  dicta- 
tion— 

From  all  the  dreaded  lore  of  the 
books — 
Escaped  from  the  thraldom  of  study, 

We  turn  to  the  babble  of  brooks ; 
We  hark  to  the  field-minstrels'  music, 

The  lowing  of  herds  on  the  lea, 
The  surge  of  the  winds  in  the  forest, 

The  roar  of  the  storm-angered  sea. 

To  the  tree-tops  Ave'll  climb  with  the 

squirrels  ; 

We  will  race  with  the  brooks  in  the 
glens ; 
The  rabbits  we'll  chase  to  their  bur- 
rows ; 

The  foxes  we'll  hunt  to  their  dens : 


130 


THE    CHILDREN'S    BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


The  woodchucks,  askulk  in  their  cav- 
erns, 

We'll  visit  again  and  again  ; 
And  we'll  peep  into  every  bird's  nest 

The  copses  and  meadows  contain. 

For  ns  are  the  blackberries  ripening 

By  many  a  moss-covered  wall ; 
There   are   blue-hats   enough    in    the 
thickets 
To  furnish  a  treat  for  us  all ; 
In  the  swamps  there  are  ground-nuts 
in  plenty  ; 
The  sea-sands  their  titbits  afford  ; 


And,  oh  most  delectable  banquet ! 
We   will   feast   at   the   honey-bee's 
board. 

Oh,  comrades,  the  gray  beards  assure  us 

That  life  is  a  burden  of  cares — 
That  the   highways  and  byways   of 
manhood 

Are  fretted  with  pitfalls  and  snares. 
Well,  school-days   have  their  tribula- 
tions, 

Their  troubles,  as  well 'as  their  joys ; 
Then  give  us  vacation  for  ever, 

If  we  must  for  ever  be  boys ! 

Beverly  Moore. 


LESSONS   OF   LIFE. 


131 


JEM  AND  THE  SHOULDER  OF  MUTTON. 

Young  Jem   at  noon   returned   from 
school 

As  hungry  as  could  be  ; 
He  cried  to  Sue  the  servant-maid, 

"  My  dinner  give  to  me." 

Said  Sue,  "  It  is  not  yet  come  home ; 

Besides,  it  is  not  late." 
"  No  matter  that,"  cries  little  Jem  ; 

"  I  do  not  like  to  wait." 

Quick  to  the  baker's  Jemmy  went, 
And  asked,  "  Is  dinner  done?" 

"  It  is,"  replied  the  baker's  man. 
"  Then  home  I'll  with  it  run." 

"  Nay,  sir,"  replied  he  prudently, 

"  I  tell  you  'tis  too  hot, 
And  much  too  heavy  'tis  for  you." 

"  I  tell  you  it  is  not. 

"  Papa,  mamma  are  both  gone  out, 

And  I  for  dinner  long; 
So  give  it  me,  it  is  all  mine  ; 

And,  baker,  hold  your  tongue. 


"A  shoulder  'tis  of  mutton  nice! 

And  batter  pudding  too ! 
I'm  glad  of  that,  it  is  so  good  ; 

How  clever  is  our  Sue !" 

Now  near  the  door  young  Jem  was 
come ; 

He  round  the  corner  turned  ; 
But  oh,  sad  fate !  unlucky  chance ! 

The  dish  his  fingers  burned. 

Low  in  the  kennel  down  fell  dish, 
And  down  fell  all  the  meat ; 

Swift  went  the  pudding  in  the  stream, 
And  sailed  along  the  street. 

The  people  laughed    and  rude  boys 
grinned 
At  mutton's  hapless  fall ; 
But,  though  ashamed,  young  Jemmy 
cried, 
"  Better  lose  part  than  all !" 

The  shoulder  by  the  knuckle  seized, 
His  hands  both  grasped  it  fast, 

And,  deaf  to  all  their  jibes  and  cries, 
He  gained  his  home  at  last. 


132 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


"  Impatience  is  a  fault,"  cries  Jem ; 

"  The  baker  told  me  true ; 
In  future  I  will  patient  be, 

And  mind  what  says  our  Sue." 

Jane  Taylob. 

THE  PLUM-CAKE. 

"  Oh,  I've  got  a  plum-cake,  and  a  fine 
feast  I'll  make, 
So  nice  to  have  all  to  myself! 
I  can  eat  every  day  while  the  rest  are 
at  play, 
And  then  put  it  by  on  the  shelf." 

Thus  said  little  John,  and  how  soon  it 
was  gone ! 
For  with  zeal  to  his  cake  he  ap- 
plied, 
While   fingers    and   thumbs    for  the 
sweetmeats  and  plums 
Were  hunting  and  digging  beside. 

But,  woeful  to  tell,  a  misfortune  be- 
fell, 
That  shortly  his  folly  revealed  ; 
After  eating  his  fill  he  was  taken  so 
ill 
That  the  cause  could  not  now  be 
concealed. 

As  he  grew  worse  and  worse,  the  doc- 
tor and  nurse 
To  cure  his  disorder  were  sent. 
And   rightly,   you'll    think,    he    had 
physic  to  drink, 
Which  made  him  sincerely  repent. 

And  while  on  the  bed  he  rolled  his  hot 

head, 

Impatient  with  sickness  and  pain, 

He  could  not  but  take  this  reproof 

from  his  cake' : 

"  Do  not  be  such  a  glutton  again." 

Jane  Taylor. 


ANOTHER  PLUM-CAKE. 

"  Oh,  I've  got  a  plum  cake,  and  a  feast 
let  us  make ; 
Come,  school-fellows,  come  at  my 
call; 
I  assure  you  'tis  nice,  and  we'll  each 
have  a  slice — 
Here's   more   than   enough   for   us 
all." 

Thus  said  little  Jack,  as  he  gave  it  a 
smack, 
And  sharpened  his  knife  to  begin ; 
Nor  was  there  one  found   upon  the 
playground 
So  cross  that  he  would  not  come 
in. 

With  masterly  strength  he  cut  through 
it  at  length, 
And    gave    to     each     playmate     a 
share ; 
Charles,   William,    and    James,    and 
many  more  names, 
Partook  his  benevolent  care. 

And  when  it  was  done,  and  they'd  fin- 
ished their  fun, 
To   marbles    or    hoops   they   went 
back, 

And  each  little  boy  felt  it  always  a 

joy 

To  do  a  good  turn  for  good  Jack. 

In   his  task   and   his   book   his   best 
pleasures  he  took, 
And  as  he  thus  wisely  began, 
Since  he's  been  a  man  grown  he  has 
constantly  shown 
That  a  good  boy  will  make  a  good 
man. 

Jane  Taylor. 


LESSONS   OF  LIFE. 


133 


WHICH  IS  YOUR  LOT? 

Some   children   roam  the   fields   and 

hills, 
And  others  work  in  noisy  mills ; 
Some  dress  in  silks,  and  dance  and 

While  others  drudge  their  lives  away ; 
Some   glow  with    health  and   bound 

with  song, 
And  some  must  suffer  all  day  long. 

Which  is  your  lot,  my  girl  and  boy  ? 

Is  it  a  life  of  ease  and  joy  ? 

Ah,  if  it  is,  its  glowing  sun 

The  poorer  life  should  shine  upon. 

Make  glad  one  little  heart  to-day, 

And  help  one  burdened  child  to  play. 


THE  BEGGAR-MAN. 

Around  the  fire,  one  wintry  night, 
The  farmer's  rosy  children  sat ; 

The  fagot  lent  its  blazing  light, 

And  jokes  went  round  and  careless 
chat. 

When,  hark  !  a  gentle  hand  they  hear 
Low  tapping  at  the  bolted  door ; 

And  thus,  to  gain  their  willing  ear, 
A  feeble  voice  was  heard  t'implore: 

"Cold  blows  the  blast  across  the  moor; 

The  sleet  drives  hissing  in  the  wind ; 
Yon  toilsome  mountain  lies  before, 

A  dreary,  treeless  waste  behind. 

"  My  eyes  are  weak  and  dim  with  age; 

No  road,  no  path,  can  I  descry; 
And  these  poor  rags  ill  stand  the  rage 

Of  such  a  keen,  inclement  sky. 

"  So  faint  I  am,  these  tottering  feet 
No  more  my  feeble  frame  can  bear ; 

My  sinking  heart  forgets  to  beat, 
And  drifting  snows  my  tomb  pre- 
pare. 

"  Open  your  hospitable  door, 

And    shield    me   from   the    biting 
blast ; 

Cold,  cold  it  blows  across  the  moor, 
The  weary  moor  that  I  have  passed." 

With  hasty  step  the  farmer  ran, 
And  close  beside  the  fire  they  place 

The  poor,  half-frozen  beggar-man, 
With  shaking  limbs  and  pallid  face. 

The  little  children  flocking  came, 
And  warmed  his  stiff 'ning  hands  in 
theirs; 

And  busily  the  good  old  dame 
A  comfortable  mess  prepares. 


134 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


Their  kindness  cheered  his  drooping 
soul, 
And    slowly    clown    his    wrinkled 
cheek 
The   big,   round   tears   were   seen   to 
roll, 
And  told  the  thanks  he  could  not 
speak. 

The  children,  too,  began  to  sigh, 
And  all  their  merry  chat  was  o'er, 

And  yet  they  felt,  they  knew  not  why, 
More  glad  than  they  had  done  be- 
fore. 

Lucy  Aiken. 


TOMMY  AND  HIS  SHILLING. 

Little  Tommy  found  a  shilling 
As  he  came  from  school  one  day  ; 

"  Now,"  said  he,  "  I'll  have  a  fortune, 
For  I'll  plant  it  right  away. 

"  Nurse  once  told  me,  I  remember, 
When  a  penny  I  had  found, 

It  would  grow  and  bear  new  pennies 
If  I  put  it  in  the  ground., 

"  I'll  not  say  a  word  to  mother, 
For  I  know  she  would  be  willing ; 

Home  I'll  run,  and  in  my  garden 
Plant  my  precious  bright  new  shil- 
ling. 

"  Every  day  I'll  give  it  water, 
And  I'll  weed  it  with  great  care  ; 

And  I  guess  before  the  winter 
It  will  many  shillings  bear. 

"  Then  I'll  buy  a  horse  and  carriage, 
And  a  lot  of  splendid  toys, 

And  I'll  give  a  hundred  shillings 
To  poor  little  girls  and  boys." 


Thus  deluded,  little  Tommy 
Laid  full  many  a  splendid  plan, 

As  the  little  coin  he  planted, 
Wishing  he  were  grown  a  man. 

Day  bv  day  he  nursed  and  watched 

it; 

Thought  of  nothing  else  beside  ; 
Day  by  day  was  disappointed,. 
For  no  signs  of  growth  he  spied. 

Tired  at  last  of  hopeless  waiting, 
More  than  any  child  could  bear, 

Little  Tommy  told  his  secret 
To  his  mother  in  despair. 

Never  was  a  kinder  mother, 

But  when  his  sad  tale  she  heard, 

'Twas  so  funny,  she  from  laughing 
Could  not  sjjeak  a  single  word. 

This  was  worse  than  all,  for  Tommy 
Thought  his  sorrow  too  severe, 

And  in  spite  of  every  effort 

Down    his    cheek    there    rolled    a 
tear. 

This  his  tender  mother  spying, 
Kissed  it  off  before  it  fell ; 

"  Where    to   plant   your   bright   new 
shilling," 
Said  she  to  him,  "  let  me  tell : 

"  Peter  Brown's  two  little  children 
Long  have  wished  to  learn  to  read, 

But  their  father  is  not  able 

To  procure  the  books  they  need. 

"  To  their  use  if  you  will  spend  it, 
Precious  seed  you  then  may  sow, 

And  ere  many  months  are  ended, 
Trust  me,  you  will  see  it  grow." 

Mrs.  S.  W.  JewetT. 


LESSOXS    OF   LIFE. 


135 


THE  BEGGAR-BOY. 


A  poor  boy  went  by  with  his  raiment 

all  torn  ; 
He  looked,  too,  so  dirty  and  very  for-  'l 

lorn  ; 
His  coat  was  in  tatters,  no  shoes  on 

his  feet, 
And  they  ached  with  the  cold  on  the 

stones  of  the  street. 


He  lias  no  kind  friends  to  instruct  him 
and  guide. 


And  he  hears  what  is  sinful,  and  sees 

it  beside ; 
Oh,  how  good  and  how  thankful  I  then 

ought  to  be 
To  the  God  who  has  given  these  good 

things  to  me ! 

Child's  Book  of  Poetry. 


Poor  boy!  no  kind  father  or  mother  THE  BEGGAR'S  PETITION. 

has  he,  Pity  the  sorrows  of  a  poor  old  man, 

Nor  has  he  a  nice  house  at  home  as  Whose  trembling  limbs  have  borne 

have  we ;  him  to  your  door, 

He  begs  all  the  day  for  a  morsel  of  Whose  days  are  dwindled  to  the  short- 
bread, est  span  ; 

And  perhaps  sleeps  at  night  in  a  com-  I      Oh   give   relief,   and    Heaven   will 

fortless  shed.  bless  vour  store. 


136 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


These  tattered  clothes  my  poverty  he- 
speak, 
These    hoary    locks    proclaim    my 
lengthened  years, 
And  many  a  furrow  in  my  grief-worn 
cheek 
Has  been  the  channel  to  a  flood  of 
tears. 

Yon    house,    erected    on    the    rising 
ground 
With    tempting    aspect,   drew    me 
from  my  road ; 
For    plenty    there    a    residence    has 
found, 
And  grandeur  a  magnificent  abode. 

Hard  is  the  fate  of  the  infirm  and 
poor ! 
Here,  as  I  craved  a  morsel  of  their 
bread, 
A  pampered    menial  drove  me  from 
the  door 
To  seek  a  shelter   in  an   humbler 
shed. 

Oh  take  me  to  your  hospitable  dome; 
Keen  blows  the  wind,  and  piercing 
is  the  cold  ; 
Short  is  my  passage  to  the  friendly 
tomb, 
For  I  am  poor,  and  miserably  old. 


Heaven  sends  misfortunes;  why  should 
we  repine  ? 
'Tis  Heaven  has  brought  me  to  the 
state  you  see ; 
And  your  condition  may  be  soon  like 
mine, — 
The  child  of  sorrow  and  of  misery. 

A  little  farm  was  my  paternal  lot ; 
Then  like  the  lark  I  sprightly  hailed 
the  morn ; 
But  ah  !   oppression  forced  me  from 
my  cot, 
My  cattle  died,  and  blighted  was 
my  corn. 

My  daughter,  once  the  comfort  of  my 
age, 
Lured  by  a  villain  from  her  native 
home, 
Is  cast  abandoned  on  the  world's  wide 
stage, 
And  doomed  in  scanty  poverty  to 
roam. 

My  tender  wife,  sweet  soother  of  my 
care, 
Struck  with  sad  anguish  at  the  stern 
decree, 
Fell,   lingering   fell,  a  victim  to   de- 
spair, 
And  left  the  world  to  wretchedness 
and  me. 


Should    I   reveal  the  sources  of  my 
grief, 
If  soft  humanity  e'er  touched  your 
breast, 
Your  hands  would  not  withhold  the 
kind  relief, 
And  tears  of  pity  would  not  be  re- 
pressed. 


Pity  the  sorrows  of  a  poor  old  man, 
'Whose  trembling  limbs  have  borne 
him  to  your  door, 
Whose  days  are  dwindled  to  the  short- 
est span ; 
Oh   give   relief,   and    Heaven    will" 
bless  your  store. 

Thomas  Moss. 


LESSONS   OF   LIFE. 


137 


THE  COMPLAINTS  OF  THE  POOR. 

"  And   wherefore   do   the   poor   com- 
plain ?" 

The  rich  man  asked  of  me  : 
"  Come,  walk  abroad  with  me,"  I  said, 

"  And  I  will  answer  thee." 

'Twas  evening,  and  the  frozen  streets 

Were  cheerless  to  behold ; 
And  we  were  wrapped  and  coated  well, 

And  yet  Ave  were  a-cold. 


I  We  met  an  old,  bareheaded  man, 
His  locks  were  thin  and  white ; 
I  asked  him  what  he  did  abroad 
In  that  cold  winter's  night. 

The  cold  was  keen  indeed,  he  said- 
But  at  home  no  fire  had  he  ; 

And  therefore  he  had  come  abroad 
To  ask  for  charity. 

|  We  met  a  young  barefooted  child. 
|      And  she  begged  loud  and  bold ; 


138 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


I  asked  her  what  she  did  abroad 
When  the  wind  it  blew  so  cold. 

She  said  her  father  was  at  home, 

And  he  lay  sick  abed ; 
And  therefore  was  it  she  was  sent 

Abroad  to  beg  for  bread. 

We  saw  a  woman  sitting  down 

Upon  a  stone  to  rest ; 
She  had  a  baby  at  her  back, 

And  another  at  her  breast. 

I  asked  her  why  she  loitered  there, 
When  the  night-wind  was  so  chill ; 

She  turned  her  head,  and  bade  the 
child 
That  screamed  behind,  be  still — 

Then  told  us  that  her  husband  served, 

A  soldier,  far  away  ; 
And  therefore  to  her  parish  she 

Was  begging  back  her  way. 

We  met  a  girl — her  dress  was  loose, 
And  sunken  was  her  eye — 

Who  with  a  wanton's  hollow  voice 
Addressed  the  passers-by ; 

I  asked  her  what  there  was  in  guilt 
That  could  her  heart  allure 

To  shame,  disease,  and  late  remorse ; 
She  answered  she  was  poor. 

I  turned  me  to  the  rich  man  then, 

For  silently  stood  he  : 
"  You  asked  me  why  thepoor  complain; 

And  these  have  answered  thee  !" 

Robert  Southey. 

HELP  THE  POOR. 

BELL. 

Oh,  Susey,  stop  a  moment,  dear, 
You  don't  know  where  I've  been  ; 

Oh,  such  a  wretched,  dismal  sight, 
I'm  sure  you've  never  seen. 


I've  been  with  mother  to  a  house 
Where  they  are  all  so  poor ; 

I  gave  them  all  my  purse  contained, 
And  only  wished  'twas  more. 

A  woman  very  pale  and  thin — 

A  widow  too,  she  said — 
And  six  young  children,  none  of  whom 

This  day  had  tasted  bread  ; 
And  not  a  single  spark  of  fire 

This  bitter,  freezing  day  : 
Now,  was  there  e'er  a  sadder  sight, 

Dear  Cousin  Susey,  say? 

Three  little  ones  tried  to  keep  warm 

In  a  poor  wretched  bed  ; 
So  cold  was  one  the  mother  held 

I  surely  thought  'twas  dead. 
Could  you  have  seen  how  glad  they 
looked 

When  mother  sent  for  wood, 
And  bread  and  meat  enough  for  all, 

'Susey,  'twould  do  you  good. 

SUSEY. 

I  have  a  dollar  here,  dear  Bell, 

Pa  gave  me  yesterday ; 
I'll  give  it  them  :  come,  go  with  me, 

Well  run  there  all  the  way. 
I'd  rather  make  a  sad  heart  smile 

Than  buy  a  doll,  I'm  sure  ; 
Indeed  it  must  be  very  hard 

Such  sorrow  to  endure. 

God  made  them   poor — He  made  us 
rich, 

The  wealth  is  all  His  own  ; 
It  was  for  them  as  well  as  us 

The  Saviour  left  His  throne. 
Let    us    henceforth    save   something, 
Bell, 

To  help  the  suffering  poor, 
And  for  God's  bounty  to  us  both 

His  blessed  name  adore. 


LESSONS    OF   LIFE. 


139 


HI 


PRAISE  FOR  MERCIES. 

Whene'er  I  take  my  walks  abroad, 

How  many  poor  I  see ! 
What  shall  I  render  to  my  God 

For  all  his  gifts  to  me  ? 

Not  more  than  others  I  deserve, 
Yet  God  hath  given  me  more ; 

For  I  have  food,  while  others  starve, 
Or  beg  from  door  to  door. 

How  many  children  in  the  street 

Half  naked  I  behold, 
While  I  am  clothed  from  head  to  feet, 

And  covered  from  the  cold  ! 

While  some  poor  creatures  scarce  can 
tell 

Where  they  may  lay  their  head, 
1  have  a  home  wherein  to  dwell, 

And  rest  upon  my  bed. 


While  others  early  learn  to  swear, 
And  curse,  and  lie,  and  steal, 

Lord,  I  am  taught  Thy  name  to  fear, 
And  do  Thy  holy  will. 

Are  these  Thy  favors,  day  by  day, 

To  me  above  the  rest  ? 
Then  let  me  love  Thee  more  than  they, 

And  try  to  serve  Thee  best. 

Isaac  Watts. 

THE  BEGGAR-GIRL. 

There's  a  poor  beggar  going  by  ; 

I  see  her  looking  in  ; 
She's  just  about  as  big  as  I, 

Only  so  very  thin. 

She  has  no  shoes  upon  her  feet, 

She  is  so  very  poor; 
And  hardly  anything  to  eat : 

I  pity  her,  I'm  sure. 


140 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


But   I    have    got   nice    clothes,   you 
know, 

And  meat  and  bread  and  fire ; 
And  dear  mamma,  that  loves  me  so, 

And  all  that  I  desire. 

If  I  were  forced  to  stroll  so  far, 
Oh  dear !  what  should  I  do  ? 

I  wish  she  had  a  kind  mamma, 
Just  such  a  one  as  you. 

Here,  little  girl,  come  back  again, 

And  hold  that  ragged  hat, 
And  I  will  put  a  penny  in : 

There  !  buy  some  bread  with  that. 


MY  LITTLE  HERO. 

"  How  we  wish  that  we  knew  a  hero !" 
Say  the  children,  pressing  round  ; 

"  Will  you  tell  us  if  such  a  wonder 
In  London  streets  can  be  found  ?" 

I  point  from  my  study-window 
At  a  lad  who  is  passing  by  : 

"  My  darlings,  there  goes  a  hero  ; 
You  well  know  his  oft-heard  cry.'' 

'•  'Tis  the  chimney-sweep,  dear  father, 
In  his  jacket  so  worn  and  old  ; 

What   can  he  do  that   is   brave   and 
true. 
Wandering  out  in  the  cold  ?" 

Says  Maudie,  "  I  thought  that  a  hero 
Was  a  man  with  a  handsome  face." 
"  And   I   pictured   him   all  in  velvet 
dressed, 
With    a    sword,"   whispered    little 
Grace. 

"  Mine  is  only  a  'sweeper,'  children, 
His  deeds  all  unnoticed,  unknown  ; 


Yet  I  think  he  is  one  of  the  heroes 
God  sees  and  will -mark  for  His  own. 

"  Out  there  he  looks  eager  and  cheerful, 
No  matter  how  poorly  he  fares ; 

No  sign  that  his  young  heart  is  heavy 
With  the  weight  of  unchildish  cares. 

"  Home  means  to  him  but  a  dingy 
room, 

A  father  he  shudders  to  see  ; 
Alas  for  the  worse  than  neglected  sons 

Who  have  such  a  father  as  he  ! 

"  And  a  mother  who  lies  on  a  ragged 
bed, 
So  sick  and  worn  and  sad ; 
No  friend  has  she  but  this  one  pale 
boy— 
This  poor  little  sweeper-lad, 

"  So  rough  to  others,  and  all  unskilled. 

Yet  to  her  most  tender  and  true, 
Oft  waking  with  patient  cheerfulness 

To    soothe    her    the   whole    night 
through. 

"  He  wastes  no  time  on  his  own  scant 
meals, 

But  goes  forth  with  the  morning  sun  ; 
Never  a  moment  is  wasted 

Till  his  long  day's  work  is  done. 

"  Then  home  to  the  dreary  attic 
Where  his  mother  lies  lonely  all  day, 

Unheeding  the  boys  who  would  tempt 
him 
To  linger  with  them  and  play. 

"  Because  she  is  helpless  and  lonely, 

He  is  doing  a  hero's  part ; 
For  loving  and  self-denying 

Are  the  tests  of  a  noble  heart." 


LESSONS    OF   LIFE. 


141 


POOR  LITTLE  JIM. 
The  cottage  was  a  thatched  one,  the 

outside  old  and  mean, 
But  all  within  that  little  cot  was  won- 
drous neat  and  clean ; 
The  night  was  dark  and  stormy,  the 

wind  was  howling  wild, 
As  a  patient   mother  sat  beside  the 

deathbed  of  her  child, 
A  little  worn-out  creature,  his    once 

bright  eyes  grown  dim. 
It  was  a  collier's  wife  and  child ;  they 

called  him  little  Jim  ; 
And  oh,  to  see  the   briny  tears   fast 

hurrying  down  her  cheek, 
As  she  offered  up  the  prayer  in  thought 

she  was  afraid  to  speak, 
Lest  she  might  waken  one  she  loved 

far  better  than  her  life, 
For  she  had  all  a  mother's  heart,  had 

that  poor  collier's  wife. 
With  hands  uplifted,  see,  she  kneels 

beside  the  sufferer's  bed, 
And  prays  that  He  would  spare  her 

boy,  and  take  herself  instead. 
She  gets  her  answer  from  the  child ; 

soft  fall  the  words  from  him  : 
"  Mother,  the  angels  do  so  smile,  and 

beckon  little  Jim. 
I  have  no  pain,  dear  mother,  now,  but 

oh,  I  am  so  dry ! 
Just  moisten  poor  Jim's  lips  again, 

and,  mother,  don't  you  cry." 
With  gentle,  trembling  haste  she  held 

the  liquid  to  his  lip ; 
He  smiled  to  thank  her  as  he  took 

each  little,  tiny  sip. 
"  Tell   father,    when   he   comes   from 

work,  I  said  good-night  to  him  ; 
And,  mother,  now  I'll  go  to  sleep." 

Alas !  poor  little  Jim ! 
She  knew  that  he  was  dying — that  the 

child  she  loved  so  dear, 


Had  uttered  the  last  words  she  might 

ever  hope  to  hear. 
The  cottage-door  is  opened,  the  collier's 

step  is  heard, 
The  father  and  the  mother  meet,  yet 

neither  speaks  a  word. 
He  felt  that  all  was  over,  he  knew  his 

child  was  dead ; 
He  took  the  candle  in  his  hand  and 

walked  toward  the  bed ; 
His  quivering  lips  gave  token  of  the 

grief  he'd  fain  conceal, 
And  see,  his  wife  has  joined  him — the 

stricken  couple  kneel ; 
With  hearts  bowed  bown  by  sadness 

they  humbly  ask  of  Him 
In  heaven  once  more  to  meet  again 

their  own  poor  little  Jim. 


POOR  KATY. 

"  I  don't  like  Katy ;  she  isn't  nice — 

Her  bonnet  is  old  \ 
The  house  she  lives  in,  it  makes  me 

laugh ; 
'Tisn't   much  too  large  for  my  little 

brown  calf; 
Not  good  enough  for  Bossy,  by  half— - 
She'd  shiver  in  it  with  cold. 

"  I  don't  like  Katy ;  her  frocks  are  all 
torn — 
And  she  don't  care. 
Now    I   never  wore   such   a   comical 

gown  ; 
The  pattern  couldn't  be  found  in  town ; 
It  must  be  her  grandmother's  dress 
cut  down  ; 
And  onty  look  at  her  hair ! 

"I  don't  like   Katy,   do   you,    Nelly 
Gray  ?" 
And  Nelly  replied : 


142 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


"  Do  you  know  Molly  Dow,  the  judge's 

daughter  ? 
I  saw  her  fall  yesterday  plump  in  the 

water ; 
And   whose   do  you   think  were   the 

hands  that  caught  her, 
Or  she  would  have  died  ?" 


"  Perhaps  her  father's  ?"     "  No,  he  was 

not  there ! 
Down,  down. she  sank  ! 
The  pretty  blue  eyes  and  the  golden 

curls 
All  drenched  and  dim  in  the  cloudy 

whirls — 
When  out  from  a  group  of  frightened 

girls 
Sprang  poor  Kate  Blanc ! 


"  It  made  me  dizzy  to  see  her  fly 

Up  to  the  brink, 
And  over.     '  I  swim  like  a  fish,'  she 

cried,  ■ 
And  plunged  at  something  that  went 

with  the  tide ; 
'Twas   poor  little  Molly,  the  judge's 
pride, 
Just  ready  to  sink. 


"  The  judge  came  then  :    you  should 
have  seen  ! 
He  held  Molly  tight ! 
But  so  he  did  Kate !     She's  home  with 

him  now ; 
And  they  say  the  rich  judge  has  taken 

a  vow, 
That  Kate  shall  be  Molly's  sister!— 
.    Kate  Dow  ! 
I  think  it's  right!" 

Mrs.  M.  A.  Dennison. 


CLEAN  CLARA. 

What  !  not  know  our  clean  Clara  ? 
Why,  the  hot  folks  in  Sahara, 
And  the  cold  Esquimaux, 
Our  little  Clara  know  ! 
Clean  Clara,  the  poet  sings, 
Cleaned  a  hundred  thousand  things. 

She   cleaned  the  keys  of  the  harpsi- 
chord, 
She  cleaned  the  hilt  of  the  family  sword, 
She  cleaned  my  lady,  she  cleaned  my 

lord  ; 
All  the  pictures  in  their  frames, 
Knights  with  daggers,  and  stomach- 

ered  dames ; 
Cecils,  Godfreys,  Montforts,  Graemes, 
Winifreds — all  those  nice  old  names  ! 

She  cleaned  the  works  of  the  eight-day 

clock, 
She  cleaned  the  spring  of  a  secret  lock ; 
She  cleaned  the  mirror,  she  cleaned 

the  cupboard ; 
All  the  books  she  India-rubbered  ! 

She  cleaned  the  Dutch   tiles  in  the 

place, 
She  cleaned  some  very  old-fashioned 

lace. 
The  Countess  of  Miniver  came  to  her, 
"  Pray,  my  dear,  will  you  clean  my  fur?" 
All  her  cleanings  are  admirable ; 
To  count  your  teeth  you  will  be  able 
If  you  look  in  the  walnut  table ! 

She   cleaned  the  tent-stitch  and  the 

sampler  ; 
She  cleaned  the  tapestry,  which  was 

ampler — 
Joseph  going  down  into  the  pit, 
And  the  Shunammite  woman,  with  the 

boy  in  a  fit. 


LESSONS    OF   LIFE. 


143 


You  saw  the  reapers,  not  in  the  dis- 
tance, 

And  Elisha  coming  to  the  child's  as- 
sistance ; 

With  the  house  on  the  wall  that  was 
built  for  the  prophet, 

The  chair,  the  bed,  and  the  bolster  of 
it, 

The  eyebrows  all  had  a  turn  reflective, 

Just  like  an  eel :  to  spare  invective, 

There  was  plenty  of  color,  but  no 
perspective. 

However,  Clara  cleaned  it  all, 

With  a  curious  lamp  that  hangs  in  the 
hall ; 

She  cleaned  the  drops  of  the  chande- 
liers. 

Madam  in  mittens  was  moved  to  tears ! 

She  cleaned  the  cage  of  the  cockatoo, 

The  oldest  bird  that  ever  grew ; 

I   should  say  a  thousand  years   old 

would  do — 
I'm  sure  he  looked   it,   but   nobody 

knew. 
She  cleaned  the  china,  she  cleaned  the 

delf, 
She   cleaned   the   baby,   she   cleaned 

herself ! 

To-morrow  morning  she  means  to  try 
To  clean  the  cobwebs  from  the  sky  ; 
Some  people  say  the  girl  will  rue  it, 
But  my  belief  is  she  will  do  it. 
So  I've  made  up  my  mind  to  be  there 

to  see! 
There's  a  beautiful  place  in  the  walnut 

tree ; 
The  bough   is   as   firm   as   the   solid 

rock  ; 
She    brings    out    her   broom    at    six 

o'clock. 

Lilliput  Levee. 


NOTHING. 

I  asked  a  lad  what  he  was  doing; 

"  Nothing,  good  sir,"  said  he  to  me. 
"By  nothing  well  and  long  pursuing, 

Nothing,"  said  I,  "  vou'll  surely 
be." 

I  asked  a  lad  what  he  was  thinking ; 

"  Nothing,"  quoth    he,  "  1   do   de- 
clare." 
"  Many,"  said  I,  "in  taverns  drinking 

By  idle  minds  were  carried  there." 

There's  nothing  great,  there's  nothing 
wise, 
Which  idle  hands  and  minds  sup- 

piy ; 

Those  who  all  thought  and  toil  despise 
Mere   nothings    live,  and   nothings 
die, 

A  thousand  naughts  are  not  a  feather 
When  in  a  sum  they  all  are  brought ; 

A  thousand  idle  lads  together 

Are    still    but    nothings    joined   to 

naught. 

i 

■  And  yet  of  merit  they  will  boast, 
And  sometimes  pompous  seem,  and 
haughty ; 

i  But  still  'tis  ever  plain  to  most 

That  nothing  boys  are  mostly  naughty. 


A  TRUE  STORY. 

Little  Ann  and  her  mother  were  walk- 
ing one  day 
Through    London's    wide    city    so 
fair, 
And  business  obliged  them  to  go  by 
the  way 
That  led  them  through  Cavendish 
Square. 


144 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


And  as  they  passed  by  the  great  house 
of  a  lord, 
A  beautiful  chariot  there  came 
To   take    some    most   elegant    ladies 
abroad, 
Who  straightway  got  into  the  same. 

The  ladies  in  feathers  and  jewels  were 

seen, 
The  chariot  was  painted  all  o'er  ; 
The  footmen  behind  were  in  silver  and 

green, 


"All  pale  is  her  face,  and  deep  sunk  is 
her  eye ; 
And  her  hands  look  like  skeleton's 
bones ; 
She  has  got  a  few  rags  just  about  her 
to  tie, 
And   her  naked  feet  bleed  on  the 
stones. 

"  '  Dear  ladies,'  she  cries — and  the  tears 


trickle  down — 
'  Relieve  a  poor  beggar,  I  pray  ; 
The  horses  were  prancing  before.       I  I've  wandered  all  hungry  about  this 

wide  town, 


And  not  ate  a  morsel  to-day 


Little  Ann  by  her  mother  walked  si- 
lent and  sad, 
A    tear    trickled    down    from    her    "  '  My  father  and  mother  are  long  ago 


eye; 
Then  her  mother  said,  "Ann,  I  should 
be  very  glad 
To    know  what    it   is   makes    you 
cry." 

"  Mamma,"  said  the  child,  "  see  that 
carriage  so  fair, 
All  covered  with  varnish  and  gold; 
Those  ladies  are  riding  so  charmingly 
there, 
While  we  have  to  walk  in  the  cold. 

*  You  say,  '  God  is  kind  to  the  folks 
that  are  good,' 
But  surely  it  cannot  be  true ; 
Or  else  I  am  certain,  almost,  that  He 
would 
Give  such  a  fine  carriage  to  you." 


dead, 
My  brother  sails  over  the  sea ; 
And  I've  scarcely  a  rag  or  a  morsel  of 
bread, 
As  plainly,  I'm  sure,  you  may  see. 

"  'A  fever  I  caught  which  was  terribly 
bad, 
But  no  nurse  or  physic  had  I ; 
An  old  dirty  shed  was  the  house  that 
I  had, 
And  only  on  straw  could  I  lie. 

"  'And  now  that  I'm  better,  yet  feeble 
and  faint, 
And  famished,  and  naked,  and  cold, 
I  wander  about  with  my  grievous  com- 
plaint, 
And  seldom  get  aught  but  a  scold. 


"  Look   there,    little    girl,"   said    her  " '  Some  will  not  attend  to  my  pitiful 

mother,  "  and  see  call ; 

What   stands   at  that  very  coach-  Some  think  me  a  vagabond  cheat, 

door ;  And  scarcely  a  creature  relieves  me. 

A  poor,  ragged  beggar,  and  listen  how  of  all 

she  The    thousands    that   traverse   the 

A  halfpenny  tries  to  implore.  street. 


LESSONS    OF   LIFE. 


145 


"  "  Then,  ladies,  dear  ladies,  your  pity 

bestow !' " 
Just  then  a  tall  footman  came  round, 
And,  asking  the  ladies  which  way  they 

would  go, 
The  chariot  turned  off  with  a  bound. 

"Ah,  see,  little  girl !"  then  her  mother 
replied, 
'•  How  foolish  those  murmurs  have 
been !" 
You  have  but  to  look  on  the  contrary 
side 
To  learn  both  your  folly  and  sin. 

"  This  poor  little  beggar  is  hungry  and 
cold, 
Xo  mother  awaits  her  return ; 
And  while  such  an  object  as  this  you 
behold, 
Your   heart  should  with  gratiti.de 
burn. 

"  Your  house  and  its  comforts,  your 
food  and  your  friends, 
'Tis  favor  in  God  to  confer ; 
Have  you  any  claim  to  the  bounty  He 
sends 
Who  makes  you  to  differ  from  her  ? 

"A  coach  and  a  footman,  and  gaudy 
attire. 
Give  little  true  joy  to  the  breast ; 
To  be  good  is  the  thing  you  should 
chiefly  desire, 
And  then  leave  to  God  all  the  rest." 

Jane  Taylor. 


But  yesterday,  dear  grandpapa, 

I  saw  a  painful  sight ; 
It  drew  the  money  from  my  purse, 

And  left  it  empty  quite. 

A  ragged  boy  led  by  the  hand 

A  little  sister  sweet, 
Who  crept  along  the  frozen  ground 

With  half-uncovered  feet. 

My  hand  sought  out  the  silver  prize 

That  in  my  pocket  lay, 
When  in  my  ear  I  heard  a  voice 

That  softly  seemed  to  say  : 

"  Think    of    the   skates,  the   shining 
skates ! 

Think  of  the  glorious  ice  ! 
If  you  relieve  the  suffering  child. 

Pleasure  must  pay  the  price/' 

''  Pleasure     a     greater    price    musi 
pay," 

Another  voice  replied, 
';  If  suffered  thus  to  close  the  hand 

That  Pity  opens  wide." 

Out  came  the  money,  grandpapa  ; 

How  could  I  then  refuse? 
And  to  the  smiling  boy  I  said, 

"  Buy  '  Sis '  a  pair  of  shoes." 

You  should  have  seen  the  little  girl, 
Her  laughing  eyes  of  blue. 

As,  showering  kisses  from  her  hand. 
She  sang,  "  New  shoe  !  new  shoe !" 


MONEY  AT  INTEREST. 

I  had  some  money  in  my  purse. 

Kept  there  almost  for  ever, 
Waiting  to  buy  a  pair  of  skates 

To  skate  upon  the  river. 

TO 


"  God    bless    the    gift,"   said    grand- 
papa, 

"  And  add  to  mercy's  store  ! 
He  lendeth  to  the  Lord,  my  son, 

Who  giveth  to  the  poor." 

Boys'  and  Giels'  Magazine. 


146 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


THE  TWO  DIMES. 

As  Dick  and  Ben,  one  summer  day, 
Were  sauntering  home,  fatigued  with 

play, 

They    spied,   close    by   a   dark   pine 

wood, 
A  pair  of   shoes,  coarse,  strong,  and 

good. 
It  seemed  as  if  the  owner's  care 
Was    to   preserve    these    shoes   from 

wear, 
And  so  he'd  placed  them  where  they 

stood, 
And    gone    barefooted    through    the 

wood. 

Ben,  glancing  at  the  setting  sun, 
Said,   "  Look   here,    Dick,   let's  have 

some  fun  : 
'Twill  soon  be  dark ;  you  won't  refuse ; 
So  bear  a  hand ;  let's  take  these  shoes ; 
And  then  we'll  hide  behind  this  stack, 
And   wait    till    the   old   chap   comes 

back, 
And  let  him  hunt  until  we  choose 
To    sing    out,    '  Mister,    here's    your 

shoes.' 

"  And  ere  he  has  a  chance  to  try 
To  catch  us,  we  will  let  'em  fly 
Right  at  his  head,  plump  in  the  face, 
And  then  we'll  lead  him  such  a  race ! 
I  wish  the  other  boys  were  here  ; 
We'd  make  old  Two-shoes  rub  his  ear. 
Come,  take  one,   Dick;   just   feel  its 

weight ; 
And  when  you  fire,  fire  straight." 

"  No,  no,"  said  Dick ;  "  not  I,  for  one : 

I'm  fond  of  joking,  fond  of  fun; 

But  who  knows  who  this  man  may 

be? 
Perhaps  he's  poor  as  poor  can  be, 


And  seeks  in  yonder  dark  pine  wood 
To  gather  chips  to  cook  his  food. 
But  come,  don't  let  us  have  a  spat ; 
We'll  play  a  trick  worth  two  of  that. 

"  I've  got  a  dime,  and  so  have  you  ; 
Let's  put  one  into  each  old  shoe, 
And  then  we'll  creep  behind  this  hay. 
And  hear  what  the  old  man  will  say." 
"  Agreed  !"  said  Ben,  who,  fond  of  fun. 
And  willing  any  risk  to  run 
To  have  a  laugh,  or  play,  or  joke, 
Yielded  at  once  when  kindness  spoke. 

So  in  the  shoes  they  put  their  dimes. 

And  back  and  forth  went  twenty 
times, 

And  laughed  and  talked  about  the 
way 

The  trick  would  end  they  meant  to 
play. 

First,  they  would  twist  the  shoes 
about, 

To  make  the  precious  dimes  show- 
out  ; 

Then  place  the  silver  in  a  way 

To  catch  the  sun's  departing  ray. 

At  length  a  sound  their  senses  greet 
Of  rustling  leaves  and  moving  feet ; 
And  then,  like  kittens  at  their  play. 
They  ran  and  hid  beneath  the  hay  ; 
But,  still  afraid  that  they  should  lose 
A  sight  of  him  who  owned  the  shoes, 
Kept  peeping  out,  as  if  to  view 
And  note  what  he  would  say  or  do. 

And  soon  from  out  the  lonely  wood, 
In  weary,  sad,  and  thoughtful  mood. 
An  old  man  came,  bowed  down  with 

years, 
Whose  eyes  betokened  recent  tears. 
His  steps  were  feeble,  tottering,  slow ; 
His  hair  as  white  as  driven  snow; 


LESSONS    OF   LIFE. 


147 


And  as  he  came  toward  the  stack 
They  saw  the  fagots  on  his  back. 

At  length  he  stopped  as  if  to  muse  ; 
His  tearful  eyes  turned   toward   his 

shoes ; 
When,  as  the  silver  met  his  sight, 
They    flashed    as    with    a    heavenly 

light, 
And  down  upon  the  yielding  sod 
He  knelt  with  heartfelt  thanks  to  God ; 
And,  with  his  aged  hands  upraised, 
He    said,    ''0    God,    Thy    name    be 

praised!"' 

And  as  the  boys  beneath  the  hay 
Listened  with  awe  to  hear  him  pray, 
They  learned  his  story,  sad  and  brief, 
Of  toil  and  sickness,  pain  and  grief; 
His  children,  one  by  one,  had  died, 
And  he  had  laid  them,  side  by  side, 
Within  the  dark  and  chilly  tomb, 
And    o'er    his    life    spread    heartfelt 
gloom. 

Yet   through   that  gloom  a  cheering 

ray 
Of  hope  sustained  him  on  his  way  ; 
He  felt  that  when  this  life  was  o'er 
His  children  he  should  see  once  more; 
And  so,  with  patience,  hope,  and  trust, 
He  had  consigned  the  dust  to  dust, 
And  at  the  grave  of  each  loved  one 
He    knelt    and   said,    "Thy    will   be 

done." 

Then  followed  other  ills  of  life — 
Cold,  pinching  want,  a  suffering  wife. 
All  this  and  more  they  heard  him  say 
As  they  lay  hid  beneath  the  hay  ; 
And  then,  with  cheek  all   wet  with 

tears, 
In  voice  made  tremulous  by  years, 


1  They  heard  him  ask  of  God  to  bless 
The  hand  that  had  relieved  distress. 
But,  rising  from  his  knees  at  length. 

'  And  leaning  on  his  staff  for  strength, 
He  thrust  his  feet  within  his  shoes, 
And  hurried  homeward  with  the  news. 

I  The  boys,  half-buried  'neath  the  hay. 
Saw  him  go  tottering  on  his  way  ; 

'  Then  crawling  out,  they   homeward 
went, 
Pleased    with    the   way   their   dimes 
were  spent. 

"  I  say,"  said  Ben,  "  if  I  had  died 
!  I  couldn't  help  it,  so  I  cried ; 
•  But  if  I  ever  try  again 
I  To  play  a  joke,  my  name  ain't  Ben  !" 

"  Well,  well,  we've  had  our  fun,"  said 
Dick, 
!     And  played  a  real  handsome  trick, 
;  And  I  sha'n't  be  ashamed  to  tell 

About  a  joke  that  ends  so  well." 

MORAL. 

The  moral  of  this  tale  is  plain  : 
Cause  no  unnecessary  pain  ; 
Pluck  from  vour  heart  all  evil  thoughts ; 
Let   love    and   kindness   guide   your 

sports ; 
And  if  induced  to  play  a  trick. 
Act  tenderly,  like  honest  Dick ; 
Or  if  in  frolic  now  and  then 
You're  led  astray,  remember  Ben. 

Remember,  too,  in  pain  or  grief 
A  prayer  to  God  will  bring  relief. 
Or  if  with  joy  the  heart  expands, 
On  bended  knee,  with  upraised  hands 
And  heart  uplifted  to  the  skies, 
Let  thanks  in  prayer  and  praise  arise. 
God  hears  the  gentlest  sigh  or  prayer : 
He's  ever  present  everywhere. 


148 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY 


LUCY  GRAY;   OR,  SOLITUDE. 

Oft  I  had  heard  of  Lucy  Gray  ; 

And  when  I  crossed  the  wild 
I  chanced  to  see  at  break  of  day 

The  solitary  child. 

No  mate,  no  comrade,  Lucy  knew  : 
She  dwelt  on  a  wide  moor — 

The  sweetest  thing  that  ever  grew 
Beside  a  human  door. 

You  yet  may  spy  the  fawn  at  play 
The  hare  upon  the  green, 

But  the  sweet  face  of  Lucy  Gray 
Will  nevermore  be  seen. 

"  To-night  will  be  a  stormy  night ; 
You  to  the  town  must  go, 


And  take  a  lantern,  child,  to  light 
Your  mother  through  the  snow." 

"  That,  father,  will  I  gladly  do ; 

'Tis  scarcely  afternoon ; 
The  minster  clock  has  just  struck  two. 

And  yonder  is  the  moon." 

At  this  the  father  raised  his  hook, 
And  snapped  a  fagot-band  ; 

He  plied  his  work,  and  Lucy  took 
The  lantern  in  her  hand. 

Not  blither  is  the  mountain -roe : 
With  many  a  wanton  stroke 

Her  feet  disperse  the  powdery  snow. 
That  rises  up  like  smoke. 


LESSONS    OF   LIFF. 


149 


The  storm  came  on  before  its  time : 
She  wandered  up  and  down, 

And  many  a  hill  did  Lucy  climb, 
But  never  reached  the  town. 

The  wretched  parents  all  that  night 
Went  shouting  far  and  wide, 

But  there  was  neither  sound  nor  sight 
To  serve  them  for  a  guide. 

At  daybreak  on  a  hill  they  stood 
That  overlooked  the  moor, 

And  thence  they  saw  the  bridge  of 
wood 
A  furlong  from  their  door. 

They  wept,  and,  turning  homeward, 
cried, 

"  In  heaven  we  all  shall  meet," 
When  in  the  snow  the  mother  spied 

The  print  of  Lucy's  feet. 

Half  breathless,  from  the  steep  hill's 
edge 
They  tracked  the  footmarks  small, 
And   through  the   broken   hawthorn 
hedge, 
And  by  the  long  stone  wall ; 

And  then  an  open  field  they  crossed  :• 
The  marks  were  still  the  same ; 

They  tracked  them  on,  nor  ever  lost, 
And  to  the  bridge  they  came. 

They  followed  from  the  snowy  bank 
Those  footmarks,  one  by  one, 

Into  the  middle  of  the  plank, 
And  further  there  were  none. 

Yet  some  maintain  that  to  this  day 

She  is  a  living  child — 
That  you  may  see  sweet  Lucy  Gray 

Upon  the  lonesome  wild. 


O'er    rough    and    smooth    she    trips 
along, 

And  never  looks  behind, 
And  sings  a  solitary  song 

That  whistles  in  the  wind. 

William  Wordsworth. 


THE  ORPHAN  BOY. 

Stay,  lady,  stay,  for  mercy's  sake, 
And  hear  a  helpless  orphan's  tale , 

Ah,  sure  my  looks  must  pity  wake — 
Tis  want  that  makes  my  cheek  so 
pale ; 

Yet  I  was  once  a  mother's  pride, 
And   my  brave  father's  hope  and 

joy ; 

But  in  the  Nile's  proud  fight  he  died, 
And  I  am  now  an  orphan  boy  ! 

Poor,  foolish  child !  how  pleased  was  I, 

When  news  of  Nelson's  victory  came, 
Along  the  crowded  streets  to  fly, 

To  see  the  lighted  windows  flame ! 
To  force  me  home  my  mother  sought — 

She  could  not  bear  to  hear  my  joy. 
For  with  my  father's  life  'twas  bought  — 

And  made  me  a  poor  orphan  boy  ! 

The  people's   shouts  were   long   and 
loud ; 
My  mother,  shuddering,  closed  1  cl- 
ears ; 
"Rejoice!    Rejoice!"    still    cried    the 
crowd, — 
My  mother  answered  with  her  tears. 
"  Oh  why  do  tears  steal   down  your 
cheek," 
Cried   I,    "  while   others   shout   for 


JO} 


,?» 


She  kissed  me,  and  in  accents  weak 
She  called  me  her  poor  orphan  boy ! 


150 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


"  What  is  an  orphan  hoy  ?"  I  said; 
When    suddenly    she    gasped    for 
breath, 
And  her  eyes  closed !     I  shrieked  for 
aid, 
But  ah  !    her  eyes  were  closed  in 
death. 
My  hardships  since  I  will  not  tell ; 
But  now,  no  more  a  parent's  joy, 
Ah,  lady,  I  have  learned  too  well 
What  'tis  to  be  an  orphan  boy  ! 

Oh,  were  I  by  your  bounty  fed ! — 

Kay,  gentle  lady,  do  not  chide ; 
Trust  me,  I  mean  to  earn  my  bread  ; 

The  sailor's  orphan  boy  has  pride. 
Lady,  you  weep ;  what  is't  you  say  ? 

You'll  give  me  clothing,  food,  cm- 
ploy  ? 
Look  down,  dear  parents !   look  and 
see 

Your  happy,  happy  orphan  boy  ! 

Amelia  Onii. 


THE  BLIND  BOY. 

It  was  a  blessed  summer  day, 

The  flowers  bloomed — the  air  was 
mild, 
The   little   birds   poured    forth  their 
lay, 
And  everything  in  nature  smiled. 

In  pleasant  thought  I  wandered  on 
Beneath    the    deep  wood's    ample 
shade, 
Till  suddenly  I  came  upon 

Two     children    who     had    thither 
strayed. 

Just  at  an  aged  birch  tree's  foot 
A  little  boy  and  girl  reclined  ; 

His  hand  in  hers  she  kindly  put, 
And  then  I  saw  the  boy  was  blind.- 


The  children  knew  not  I  was  near — 
A   tree    concealed    me   from   their 
view — 
But  all  they  said  I  well  could  hear, 
And   I   could  see  all  they   might 
do. 

"  Dear   Mary,"   said   the   poor   blind 
boy, 

"  That  little  bird  sings  very  long ; 
Say,  do  you  see  him  in  his  joy  ? 

And  is  he  pretty  as  his  song  ?" 

"  Yes,  Edward,  yes,"  replied  the  maid, 
"  I  see  the  bird  on  yonder  tree." 

The  poor  boy  sighed,  and  gently  said, 
"  Sister,  I  wish  that  I  could  see ! 

"  The  flowers,  you  say,  are  very  fair, 
And  bright  green  leaves  are  on  the 
trees, 

And  pretty  birds  are  singing  there — 
How  beautiful  for  one  who  sees ! 

"  Yet  I  the  fragrant  flower  can  smell, 
And    I    can   feel   the  green   leaf's 
shade, 
And  I  can  hear  the  notes  that  swell 
From  those  dear  birds  that  God  has 
made. 

"  So,  sister,  God  to  me  is  kind, 

Though   sight,   alas !    He    has    not 
given ; 

But  tell  me,  are  there  any  blind 
Among  the  children  up  in  heaven?" 

"  No,  dearest  Edward  ;  there  all  see ; 

But  why  ask  me  a  thing  so  odd  ?" 
"  Oh,  Mary,  He's  so  good  to  me, 

I  thought  I'd  like  to  look  at  God." 

Ere  long  disease  his  hand  had  laid 
On  that  dear  boy,  so  meek  and  mild; 


LESSONS   OF   LIFE. 


151 


His  widowed  mother  wept,  and  prayed  I  Now,  what  the  bright  colors  of  mu&ic 
That  God  would  spare  her  sightless  may  be 

child.  j  Will  any  one  tell  me,  for  I  cannot  see? 


He  felt  her  warm  tears  on  his  face, 
And  said,  "  Oh  never  weep  for  me  ; 

I'm  going  to  a  bright,  bright  place, 
Where  Mary  says  I  God  shall  see. 

"  And  you'll  be  there,  dear  Mary,  too ; 

But,  mother,  when  you  get  up  there, 
Tell  Edward,  mother,  that  'tis  you — 

You  know  I  never  saw  you  here." 

He  spoke  no  more,  but  sweetly  smiled 
Until  the  final  blow  was  given, 

When   God  took  up  the  poor   blind 
child, 
And  opened  first  his  eyes  in  heaven. 

Rkv.  Dr.  Hawks. 

THE  BLIND  BOY. 

Oh,  tell  me  the  form  of  the  soft  sum- 
mer air, 

That  tosses  so  gently  the  curls  of  my 
hair ; 

It  breathes  on  my  lips  and  it  fans  my 
warm  cheek, 

But  gives  me  no  answer,  though  often 
I  speak. 

I  feel  it  play  o'er  me  refreshing  and 
light, 

And  yet  cannot  touch  it,  because  I've 
no  sight. 

And  music,  what  is   it?    and  where 

does  it  dwell  ? 
I  sink  and  I  mount  with  its  cadence 

and  swell, 
While  thrilled  to  my  heart  with  the 

deep-going  strain, 
Till  pleasure  excessive  seems  turning 

to  pain. 


The  odors  of  flowers  that  are  hovering 

nigh, 
What  are   they  ?   on   what   kind   of 

wings  do  they  fly  ? 
Are  these  shining  angels,  who  come  to 

delight 
A  poor  little  child  that  knows  nothing 

of  sight  ? 
The  face  of  the  sun  never  comes  to 

my  mind— 
Oh,  tell  me  what  light  is,  because  I 

am  blind. 

Hannah  F.  Gould. 


THE  BLIND  BOY. 

Oh,  say  what  is  that  thing  called  Light 
Which  I  must  ne'er  enjoy ; 

What  are  the  blessings  of  the  sight  ? 
Oh,  tell  3Tour  j)oor  blind  boy. 

You  talk  of  wondrous  things  you  see ; 

You  say  the  sun  shines  bright ; 
I  feel  him  warm,  but  how  can  he 

Or  make  it  day  or  night  ? 

My  day  or  night  myself  I  make 

Whene'er  I  sleep  or  play  ; 
And  could  I  ever  keep  awake, 

With  me  'twere  always  day. 

With  heavy  sighs  I  often  hear 
You  mourn  my  hapless  woe  ; 

But  sure  with  patience  I  can  bear 
A  loss  I  ne'er  can  know. 

Then  let  not  what  I  cannot  have 
My  cheer  of  mind  destroy; 

Whilst  thus  I  sing  I  am  a  king, 
Although  a  poor  blind  boy. 

C.   ClBBES. 


152 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


THE   BLIND  MAN. 

Dear  children,  see,  I'm  old  and  poor, 
I  grope  my  way  from  door  to  door. 
You,  happy  children,  cannot  know 
How  dark  the  path  through  which  I 
go. 

But  Bible  words  have  comfort  strong; 
They're   ringing   round    me   all   day 

long — 
They  tell  me  of  a  brighter  place, 
Where  I  shall  see  my  Maker's  face. 


THE  SAILOR  BOY  AND  HIS  MOTHER. 
Hark  to  the  thunder ! 

List  to  the  rain ! 
See  the  fierce  lightning 
Flashing  again ! 

See,  at  yon  window, 

Gleaming  afar, 
Shines  a  pale  taper, 

Like  a  lone  star ! 

There  a  lone  mother, 

Bending  the  knee, 
Prays  for  her  darling, 

Far,  far  at  sea. 

0  God  in  heaven, 

Hear  Thou  her  prayer ! 

Still  Thou  the  tempest, 
Calm  her  despair ! 

Out  on  the  waters, 
Where  the  winds  roar, 

Tossed  by  the  billows, 
Miles  from  the  shore, 

In  his  rude  hammock, 
Rocked  by  the  deep, 

Lies  a  young  sailor 
Buried  in  sleep. 


Sweetly  he's  smiling, 

Dreaming  of  home, 
Far  in  green  England, 

Over  the  foam. 

She  who  is  praying 
Stands  by  him  now, 

Parting  his  tresses, 
Kissing  his  brow. 

God  send  him  safely 

To  her  again ! 
God  grant  her  watching 
.  Be  not  in  vain ! 

Matthias  Barr. 


THE  SAILOR  BOY'S  GOSSIP. 

You  say,  dear  mamma,  it  is  good  to  be 
talking 
With  those  who  will  kindly  endeavor 
to  teach  ; 
And  I  think  I  have  learnt  something 
while  I  was  walking 
Along  with  the  sailor  boy  down  on 
the  beach. 

He  told  me  of  lands  where  he  soon 
will  be  going, 
Where  humming-birds  scarcely  are 
bigger  than  bees — 
Where  the  mace  and  the  nutmeg  to- 
gether are  growing, 
And  cinnamon  formeth  the  bark  of 
the  trees. 

He  told  me  that  islands  far  out  in  the 
ocean 
Are  mountains  of  coral,  that  insects 
have  made ; 
And  I  freely  confess  I  had  hardly  a 
notion 
That  insects  could  work  in  the  way 
that  he  said. 


LESSONS   OF   LIFE. 


153 


He  spoke  of  wide  deserts  where  sand- 
clouds  are  flying, 
No  shade  for  the  brow,  and  no  grass 
for  the  feet ; 
Where  camels  and  travellers  often  lie 
dying, 
Gasping   for   water   and    scorching 
with  heat. 

He  told   me  of  places   away  in  the 
East 
Where  topaz  and  ruby  and  sapphire 
are  found, 
Where  you  never  are  safe  from  the 
snake  and  the  beast, 
For  the  serpent  and  tiger  and  jackal 
abound. 

He  declared  he  had  gazed  on  a  very 
high  mountain 
Spurting  out  volumes   of   sulphur 
and  smoke, 


That  burns  day  and  night  like  a  fiery 
fountain, 
Pouring   forth   ashes  that   blacken 
and  choke. 

I  thought  our  own  river  a  very  great 
stream, 
With  its  water  so  fresh  and  its  cur- 
rents so  strong, 
But   how   tiny  our   largest   of  rivers 
must  seem 
To  those   he   has   sailed  on,  three 
thousand  miles  long ! 

He  spoke,  dear  mamma,  of  so  many 
strange  places, 
With  people  who  neither  have  cities 
nor  kings, 
Who  wear  skins  on  their   shoulders 
and  paint  on  their  faces, 
And  live  on  the  spoils  which  their 
huntino-rield  brings. 


154 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


He  told  me  of  waters  whose  wonder-    But  men  must  work,  and  women  must 

ful  falling       .  weep, 

Sends  clouds  of  white  foam  and  a,  ,  Though  storms  be  sudden,  and  waters 

thundering  sound,  deep, 

With  a  voice  that  for  ever  is  loud  and        And  the  harbor  bar  be  moaning. 

appalling,  i  .    . 

.  •  j  V1  t        c  Three  corpses  lay  out  on  the  sinning 

And    roars   like   a   lion   lor   many  i 

i  i  sands 

leagues  round.  .  . 

In  the  morning  gleam  as  the  tide 

went  down, 
Oh,    I   long,  dear  mamma,  to    learn     .     -,,,  .  ,      . 

'  ,  '  And  the  women  are  weeping  and  wring- 

more  of  these  stories  •       +i    •    i       i 

mg  their  hands 
From    books    that   are   written   to 

please  and  to  teach, 


For  those  who  will  never  come  home 
to  the  town  ; 
For  men  must  work,  and  women  must 
weep, 


And  I  wish  I  could  see  half  the  cu- 
rious glories 

The  sailor  boy  told  me  of,  down  on     .     -,  ,, 

,     ,       ,  '  !  And  the  sooner  its  over,  the  sooner  to 

sleep, 

And  good-bye  to  the  bar  and   its 

moaning. 


Eliza  Cook. 


Charles  Kingsley. 

THE  SAILOR  BOY'S  DREAM. 
In   slumbers   of   midnight  the  sailor 
boy  lay, 
His  hammock  swung  loose  at  the 
sport  of  the  wind  ; 
But,  watchworn  and  weary,  his  cares 
flew  away, 
And   visions  of  happiness   danced 
o'er  his  mind. 


THE  THREE  FISHERS. 

Three  fishers  went  sailing  away  to  the 
west — 
Away  to  the  west  as  the  sun  went 
down  ; 
Each  thought  on  the  woman  who  loved 
him  the  best, 
And  the  children    stood   watching 
them  out  of  the  town ; 
For  men  must  work,  and  women  must 

weep, 
And  there's  little  to  earn  and  many  to    He  dreamed  of  his  home,  of  his  dear 
keep  native  bowers, 

Though  the  harbor  bar  be  moaning,  j      And  pleasures  that  waited  on  life's 

merry  morn, 

Three  wives  sat  up  in  the  lighthouse  |  While  Memory  stood  sideways,  half 
I  covered  with  flowers, 

And  they  trimmed  the  lamps  as  the  !      And  restored  ever*v  rose'  but  Secre" 
sun  went  down;  ted  its  thorn. 

They  looked  at  the  squall,  and  they  |  Then  Fancy  her  magical  pinions  spread 
looked  at  the  shower,  wide, 

And  the  night-rack  came  rolling  up  j      And  bade  the  young  dreamer  in  ec- 
ragged  and  brown  ;  stasy  rise ; 


LESSONS  OF   LIFE. 


155 


Now  far,  far  behind   him  the  green 
waters  glide, 
And  the  cot  of  his  forefathers  blesses 
his  eyes. 

The  jessamine  clambers  in  flower  o'er 
the  thatch, 
And  the  swallow  sings  sweet  from 
her  nest  in  the  wall ; 
All  trembling  with  transport,  he  raises 
the  latch, 
And  the  voices  of  loved  ones  reply 
to  his  call. 

A  father  bends  o'er  him  with  looks  of 
delight, 
His  cheek  is  impearled  with  a  moth- 
er's warm  tear, 


And  the  lips  of  the  boy  in  a  love-kiss 
unite 
With  the  lips  of  the  maid  whom  his 
bosom  holds  dear. 

The  heart  of  the  sleeper  beats  high 
in  his  breast; 
Joy  quickens  his  pulses — his  hard- 
ships seem  o'er ; 
And   a  murmur  of  happiness  steals 
through  his  rest — 
"  Kind  Fate,  thou  hast  blest  me !  I 
ask  for  no  more." 

Ah  !    what  is  that  flame  which  now 
bursts  on  his  eye  ? 
Ah  !  what  is  that  sound  which  now 
'larums  his  ear? 


'Tis  the  lightning's  red  glare,  painting 
hell  on  the  sky, 
'Tis  the  crashing  of  thunders,  the 
groan  of  the  sphere ! 


He  springs  from  his  hammock,  he  flies 
to  the  deck — 
Amazement  confronts  him  with  im- 
ages dire ; 


156 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF    POETRY 


Wild  winds  and  mad  waves  drive  the 
vessel  a  wreck — 
The    masts   fly    in    splinters  —  the 
shrouds  are  on  fire ! 

Like  mountains  the  billows  tremen- 
dously swell ; 
In  vain   the   lost  wretch    calls   on 
Mercy  to  save ; 
Unseen  hands  of  spirits  are  ringing 
his  knell ; 
And  the  death-angel  flaps  his  broad 
wing  o'er  the  wave  ! 

0  sailor  boy !   woe  to  thy  dream  of 
delight ! 
In  darkness  dissolves  the  gay  frost- 
work of  bliss ; 
Where  now  is  the  picture  that  Fancy 
touched  bright, 
Thy  parents'  soft  pressure  and  love's 
honeyed  kiss  ? 

O  sailor  boy  !  sailor  boy  !  never  again 
Shall   home,  love,  or   kindred  thy 
wishes  repay ; 
Unblessed  and  unhonored,  down  deep 
in  the  main, 
Full    many   a   fathom,   thy   frame 
shall  decay. 

No  tomb  shall  e'er  plead  to  remem- 
brance for  thee, 
Or  redeem  form  or  frame  from  the 
merciless  surge ; 
But  the  white  foam  of  waves  shall  thy 
winding-sheet  be, 
And  winds,  in  the  midnight  of  win- 
ter, thy  dirge ! 

On  beds  of  green  sea-flowers  thy  limbs 
shall  be  laid, 
Around   thy  white   bones  the  red 
coral  shall  grow; 


Of  thy  fair  yellow  locks  threads   of 
amber  be  made, 
And  every  part  suit  to  thy  mansion 
below. 

Days,  months,  years,  and   ages  shall 
circle  away, 
And  still  the  vast  waters  above  thee 
shall  roll ; 
Earth  loses  thy  pattern  for  ever  and 
aye ! 
O  sailor  boy !  sailor  boy  !  peace  to 
thy  soul ! 

William  Dimond. 


THE  WIVES  OF  BR1XHAM. 

You  see  the  gentle  water, 

How  silently  it  floats, 
How  cautiously,  how  steadily, 

It  moves  the  sleepy  boats ; 
And  all  the  little  loops  of  pearl 

It  strews  along  the  sand 
Steal  out  as  leisurely  as  leaves 

W hen  summer  is  at  hand. 

But  you  know  it  can  be  angry, 

And  thunder  from  its  rest, 
When  the  stormy  taunts  of  winter 

Are  flying  at  its  breast ; 
And  if  you  like  to  listen, 

And  draw  your  chairs  around, 
I'll  tell  you  what  it  did  one  night 

When  you  were  sleeping  sound. 

The  merry  boats  of  Brixham 

Go  out  to  search  the  seas  ; 
A  staunch  and  sturdy  fleet  are  they. 

Who  love  a  swinging  breeze ; 
And  along  the  woods  of  Devon, 

And  the  silver  cliffs  of  Wales, 
You  may  see,  when  summer  evenings 
fall, 

The  light  upon  their  sails. 


LESSONS    OF   LIFE. 


157 


But  when  the  year  grows  darker, 

And  gray  winds  hunt  the  foam, 
They  go  hack  to  little  Brixham 

And  ply  their  toils  at  home; 
And  so  it  chanced,  one  winter's  day, 

When  the  wind  began  to  roar, 
That  all  the  men  were  out  at  sea, 

And  all  the  wives  on  shore. 

Then,  as  the  storm  grew  fiercer, 

The  women's  cheeks  grew  white; 
It  was  fiercer  through  the  twilight, 

And  fiercest  in  the  night ; 
The  strong  clouds  set  themselves  like 
ice, 

With  not  a  star  to  melt, 
And  the  blackness  of  the  darkness 

Was  something  to  be  felt. 

The  wind,  like  an  assassin, 

Went  on  its  secret  way, 
And  struck  a  hundred  barks  adrift 

To  reel  about  the  bay  ; 
They  meet !    they  crash  ! — God  keep 
the  men  ! 

God  give  a  moment's  light ! 
There  is  nothing  but  the  tumult, 

And  the  tempest,  and  the  night. 

The  men  on  shore  were  trembling, 

They  grieved  for  what  they  knew  ; 
What  do  you  think  the  women  did  ? 

Love  taught  them  what  to  do : 
Up   spoke   a   wife :    "  We've   beds   at 
home — 

We'll  burn  them  for  a  light ; 
Give  us  the  men  and  the  bare  ground — 

We  want  no  more  to-night." 

They  took  the  grandame's  blanket, 
Who  shivered  and  bade  them  go  ; 

They  took  the  baby's  pillow, 
Who  could  not  say  them  no ; 


And  they  heaped  a  great  fire  on  the 
pier, 

And  knew  not  all  the  while 
If  they  were  heaping  a  bonfire, 

•Or  only  a  funeral  pile. 

And,  fed  with  precious  food,  the  flame 

Shone  bravely  on  the  black, 
Till  a  cry  went  through  the  people, 

"  A  boat  is  coming  back  !" 
Staggering  dimly  through  the  fog, 

They  see,  and  then  they  doubt, 
But  when  the  first  prow  strikes  the 
pier, 

Cannot  you  hear  them  shout  ? 

Then  all  along  the  breadth  of  flame 

Dark  figures  shrieked  and  ran, 
With, "  Child,  here  comes  your  father !"' 

Or  "  Wife,  is  this  your  man  ?" 
And  faint  feet  touch  the  welcome  stone 

And  stay  a  little  while, 
And  kisses  drop  from  frozen  lips, 

Too  tired  to  speak  or  smile. 

So,  one  by  one,  they  struggled  in, 

All  that  the  sea  would  spare ; 
We  will  not  reckon  through  our  tears 

The  names  that  were  not  there  ; 
But  some  went  home  without  a  bed, 

When  all  the  tale  was  told, 
Who  were  too  cold  with  sorrow 

To  know  the  night  was  cold. 

And  this  is  what  the  men  must  do 

Who  work  in  wind  and  foam, 
And  this  is  what  the  women  bear 

Who  watch  for  them  at  home  : 
So,  when  you  see  a  Brixham  boat 

Go  out  to  meet  the  gales, 
Think  of  the  love  that  travels 

Like  light  upon  her  sails  ! 

M.  B.  S. 


158 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


THE  LITTLE  SCHOONER. 
They  built  a  little  ship 

By  the  rough  seaside ; 
They  laid  her  keel  in  hope, 

And  they  launched  it  in  pride. 
Five-and-twenty  workingmen, 

All  day  and  half  night, 
Were  hammering  and  clamoring 

To  make  her  all  right. 

Lightly  was  she  rigged, 

And  strongly  was  she  sparred ; 
She  had  bowlines  and  buntlines, 

Topping-lift  and  yard ; 
They  swung  round  her  boom 

When  the  wind  blew  piff-paff, 
For  she  was  a  little  schooner, 

And  she  sailed  with  a  gaff. 

The  men  who  were  making  her 
Talked  of  her  at  home : 

"  A  smarter  little  creature 
Shall  never  breast  the  foam  ; 


She  is  not  built  for  battle, 

Nor  for  any  dark  deed, 
But  for  safety  and  money, 

And  comfort  and  speed." 

She  made  two  trips 

In  the  smooth  summer  days ; 
Back  she  came  merrily — 

All  sang  her  praise. 
Once  she  brought  figs 

From  a  land  of  good  heat ; 
Once  she  brought  Memel-wood, 

Strong,  hard,  and  sweet. 

She  made  three  trips 

When  winter  gales  were  strong ; 
Back  she  came  gallantly, — 

Not  a  spar  wrong ; 
She  could  scud  before  the  wind 

With  just  a  sail  set, 
Or  beat  up  and  go  about, 

With  not  a  foot  wet. 


LESSONS   OF   LIFE. 


159 


It  was  in  September 

That  she  went  out  anew, 
As  fresh  as  a  little  daisy 

Brimful  of  morning  dew; 
Brushed,  painted,  holystoned, 

Tarred,  trimmed,  and  laced, 
Like  a  beauty  in  a  ball-dress 

With  a  sash  around  her  waist. 

She  went  out  of  harbor 

With  a  light  breeze  and  fair, 
And  every  shred  of  canvas  spread 

Upon  the  soft  blue  air ; 
But  when  she  passed  the  Needles 

It  was  blowing  half  a  gale, 
And  she  took  in  a  double  reef, 

And  hauled  down  half  her  sail. 

Just  as  the  sun  was  sinking 

A  cloud  sprang  from  the  east, 
Like  an  angry  whiff  of  darkness 

Before  the  daylight  ceased  ; 
It  went  rushing  up  the  sky, 

And  a  black  wind  rushed  below, 
And  struck  the  little  schooner 

As  a  man  strikes  his  foe. 

She  fought  like  a  hero — 

Alas !  how  could  she  fight 
In  the  clutch  of  the  hurling  demons 

Who  roar  in  the  seas  by  night  ? 
White  stars,  wild  stars, 

With  driving  clouds  before, 
You  saw  her  driven  like  a  cloud 

Upon  a  cruel  lee-shore  ! 

There  were  ten  souls  on  board  of  her ; 

The  crew,  I  ween,  were  eight, 
And  the  ninth  was  a  woman, 

And  she  was  the  skipper's  mate — 
The  ninth  was  a  woman, 

With  a  prayer  upon  her  lip ; 
And  the  tenth  was  a  little  cabin-boy, 

And  this  was  his  first  trip. 


As  they  drove  upon  the  rocks 

Before  the}r  settled  down, 
They  could  see  the  happy  windows 

Along  a  shining  town  ; 
The  nicker  of  the  firelight 

Came  through  the  swirls  of  foam, 
And  they  cried  to  one  another, 

"  Oh  !  thus  it  looks  at  home  f" 

By  those  bright  hearths  they  guessed 
not, 

Closing  their  peaceful  day, 
How  ten  poor  souls  were  drowning 

Not  half  a  mile  away  ! 
But  there  were  some  hardy  fellows 

Keeping  a  bright  lookout, 
Who  had  manned  the  life-boat  long 

ago, 
And  launched  her  with  a  shout. 

Out  in  the  darkness,  clinging 

To  broken  mast  and  rope, 
The  ten  were  searching  sea  and  sky 

With  eyes  that  had  no  hope  ; 
And  the  moon  made  awful  ridges 

Of  black  against  the  clear, 
And  the  life-boat  over  the  ridges 

Came  leaping  like  a  deer ! 

Up  spoke  the  life-boat  coxswain, 
When  they  came  near  the  wreck : 
|  "  Who  casts  his  life  in  this  fierce  sea 
To  carry  a  rope  on  deck  ?" 
The  men  were  all  so  willing 

That  they  chose  the  first  who  spoke. 
And  he  plunged   into  the  breathless 
pause 
Before  a  huge  wave  broke. 

And  the  wave  sprang  like  a  panther 

And  caught  him  by  the  neck, 
And  tossed  him,  as  you  toss  a  ball, 
i      Upon  the  shuddering  wreck  ; 


160 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY 


Faint  eager  hands  upheld  him 

Till  he  had  got  his  breath, 
And  could  make  fast  the  blessed  rope — 

A  bridge  to  life  from  death. 

There's  many  a  precious  cargo 

Comes  safe  to  British  sands, 
There's  many  a  gallant  fighting-man 

About  our  British  lands  ; 
But  I  think  our  truest  heroes 

Are  men  with  names  unknown, 
Who  save  a  priceless  freight  of  lives, 

And  never  heed  their  own. 

Now  bear  those  weary  wanderers 

From  the  dark  shores  below, 
And  warm  them  at  the  hearths  whose 
light 

They  watched  an  hour  ago  ; 
And  call  the  fishers  and  sailors 

Gravely  to  see,  and  say, 
"  Our  turn  may  come  to-morrow, 

As  theirs  has  come  to-day." 

Among  the  fishers  and  sailors 

There  came  a  sunburnt  man, 
And  he  stared  at  the  little  cabin-boy 

Lying  so  white  and  wan — 
Lying  so  white  and  speechless, 

They  thought  his  days  were  done — 
And  the  sailor  stared,  and  wrung  his 
hands, 

And  cried,  "  It  is  my  son ! 


"  Oh !  I  was  bound  for  Plymouth, 

And  he  for  the  coast  of  Spain, 
But  little  I  thought  when  we  set  sail 

How  we  should  meet  again. 
And  who  will  tell  his  mother 

How  he  is  come  ashore  ? 
For,  though  I  loved  him  very  much, 

I  know  she  loved  him  more. 

"  I'll  kiss  his  lips  full  genthT 
Before  they  are  quite  cold, 

And  she  shall  take  that  kiss  from  mine 
Ere  this  moon  waxes  old." 

"  Father !"  the  pale  lips  murmur, 
"  Is  mother  with  you  here?" 

The  answer  to  these  welcome  words 
•  Was  a  sob,  and  then  a  cheer. 

The  captain  spoke  at  midnight, 

When  he  saw  the  tossing  sky, 
"  Alas !  a  woeful  night  is  this, 

And  a  woeful  man  am  I. 
Glad  am  I  for  my  wife,"  he  said, 

"  And  glad  for  my  true  men  ; 
But  alas  for  my  little  schooner ! 

She'll  never  sail  again !" 

Now,  all  you  life-boat  heroes 
Who  reckon  your  lives  so  cheap, 

You  banish  tears  from  other  homes — 
Make  not  your  own  to  weep ! 


LESSONS   OF   LIFE. 


161 


You  cannot  die  like  lions, 
For  all  you  are  so  strong  ; 

While  you  are  saving  other  lives, 
God  keep  your  own  from  wrong ! 

By  one  of  the  Authors  <w 
"Poems  Written  for  a  Child." 


A   splendid  fellow — James   Brown,   the 
mate  ; 
'Ttcas  grand  to  see  him  swim. 
The  mate?   the   mate?     Why,  that's 
my  hoy  ! 
God  bless  him,  my  boy  Jem  ! 

Frederick  E.  Weatijerly. 


MY  BOY  JEM. 

A  fearful  storm  inthe British  Channel, 

On  Monday,  all  the  day ; 
And  the  "Daisy"  bound  for  Bristol, 

Was  lost  in  Walton  Bay— 
Hie  "Daisy"  Captain  Roberts. 

Why,  my  boy  sailed  with  him  ; 
And  she's  lost !    she's  lost !    and   my 
dear  boy, 

God  bless  him,  my  boy  Jem ! 

Bound  for  Bristol,  with  sugar; 

And  just  off  Clevedon  town 
Tlie  cargo  shifted,  a  storm  blew  up, 

Struck  her,  and  she  went  doivn. 
Poor  souls !  poor  souls  !  and  my  dear 
lad ; 

But  sure  the  boy  could  swim  ; 
What'll  his  mother  say  ?     Poor  lad ! 

God  bless  him,  my  boy  Jem ! 

The  captain^  wife  lives  on  the  shore, 

In  sight  of  Walton  Bay  ; 
She'd  been  watching  days  and  weeks, 

And  watching  that  very  day. 
The  captain  stuck  to  the  ship; 

They  say  he  couldii't  swim. 
Yes  !  yes  !  I've  heard  him  laugh  on't 

Times  enough  to  my  boy  Jem. 

But  one  of  the  sailors  caught  him 
Just  a-s  the  ship  went  down — 

Jumped  overboard  and  swam  with  him, 
And  brought  him  into  the  town. 
n 


THE  WRECK  OF  THE  HESPERUS. 

It  was  the  schooner  Hesperus 
That  sailed  the  wintry  sea  ; 

And  the  skipper  had  taken  his  little 
daughter, 
To  bear  him  company. 

Blue  were  her  eyes  as  the  fairy  flax. 
Her  cheeks  like  the  dawn  of  day, 

And  her  bosom  white  as  the  hawthorn 
buds. 
That  ope  in  the  month  of  May. 

The  skipper,  he  stood  beside  the  helm  ; 

His  pipe  was  in  his  mouth  : 
And  he  watched  how  the  veering  flaw 
did  blow 

The  smoke,  now  west,  now  south. 

Then  up  and  spake  an  old  sailor, 
Had  sailed  to  the  Spanish  Main : 

"  I  pray  thee,  put  into  yonder  port, 
For  I  fear  a  hurricane. 

"  Last  night  the  moon  had  a  golden 
ring, 
And  to-night  no  moon  we  see !" 
The  skipper  he  blew  a  whiff  from  his 
pipe, 
And  a  scornful  laugh  laughed  he. 

Colder  and  louder  blew  the  wind, 
A  gale  from  the  north-east ; 

The  snow  fell  hissing  in  the  brine, 
And  the  billows  frothed  like  veast. 


162 


THE    CHILDREN'S    BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


Down    came   the    storm,   and   smote 
amain 
The  vessel  in  its  strength  ; 
She    shuddered    and   paused    like   a 
frighted  steed, 
Then  leaped  her  cable's  length. 

"  Come  hither !  come  hither !  my  little 
daughter, 

And  do  not  tremble  so  ; 
For  I  can  weather  the  roughest  gale 

That  ever  wind  did  blow." 

He  Avrapped  her  warm  in  his  seaman's 
coat 

Against  the  stinging  blast ; 
He  cut  a  rope  from  a  broken  spar, 

And  bound  her  to  the  mast. 

"Oh,  father!  I  hear  the  church-bells 
ring  ; 

Oh  say,  what  may  it  be?" 
"  'Tis  a  fog-bell  on  a  rock-bound  coast !" 

And  he  steered  for  the  open  sea. 


"  Oh,  father  !  I  hear  the  sound  of  guns  ; 

Oh  say,  what  may  it  be  ?" 
"Some  ship   in   distress,  that  cannot 
live 

In  such  an  angry  sea  !" 

"  Oh,  father !  I  see  a  gleaming  light ; 

Oh  say,  Avhat  may  it  be?" 
But  the  father  answered  never  a  word — 

A  frozen  corpse  was  he. 

Lashed   to    the   helm,   all    stiff    and 
stark, 
With  his  face  turned  to  the  skies, 
The    lantern    gleamed    through    the 
gleaming  snow 
On  his  fixed  and  glassy  eyes. 

Then  the  maiden  clasped  her  hands, 
and  prayed 
That  saved  she  might  be  ; 
And  she  thought  of  Christ,  who  stilled 
the  wave 
On  the  Lake  of  Galilee. 


LESSONS    OF   LIFE. 


163 


And  fast  through  the  midnight  dark    Such  was  the  wreck  of  the  Hesperus 
and  drear,  In  the  midnight  and  the  snow ; 

Through   the   whistling    sleet   and  i  Christ  save  us  all  from  a  death  like 
snow,  this 

Like  a  sheeted  ghost  the  vessel  swept  j      On  the  reef  of  Norman's  Woe! 
Toward  the  reef  of  Norman's  Woe.  Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 


And  ever,  the  fitful  gusts  between, 
A  sound  came  from  the  land ; 

It  was  the   sound   of  the   trampling 
surf 
On  the  rocks  and  the  hard  sea-sand. 

The  breakers  were  right  beneath  her 
bows ; 
She  drifted  a  dreary  wreck  ; 
And   a    whooping   billow   swept   the 
crew, 
Like  icicles,  from  her  deck. 

She  struck  where  the  white  and  fleecy 
waves 
Looked  soft  as  carded  wool ; 
But  the  cruel  rocks  they  gored   her 
side 
Like  the  horns  of  an  angry  bull. 

Her  rattling  shrouds,  all  sheathed  in 
ice, 
With  the  masts,  went  by  the  board  ; 
Like  a  vessel  of  glass,  she  stove  and 
sank — 
Ho  !  ho  !  the  breakers  roared  ! 

At  daybreak,  on  the  bleak  sea-beach, 

A  fisherman  stood  aghast 
To  see  the  form  of  a  maiden  fair 

Lashed  close  to  a  drifting  mast. 

The  salt  sea  was  frozen  on  her  breast, 

The  salt  tears  in  her  eyes  ; 
And  he  saw  her  hair,  like  the  brown 
sea-weed, 
On  the  billows  fall  and  rise. 
11 


THE  CAPTAIN'S  DAUGHTER. 

We  were  crowded  in  the  cabin, 
Not  a  soul  would  dare  to  sleep ; 

It  was  midnight  on  the  waters, 
And  a  storm  was  on  the  deep. 

'Tis  a  fearful  thing  in  winter 
To  be  shattered  by  the  blast, 

And  to  hear  the  rattling  trumpet 
Thunder,  "  Cut  away  the  mast !" 

So  we  shuddered  there  in  silence — 
For  the  stoutest  held  His  breath — 

While  the  hungry  sea  was  roaring 
And  the  breakers  talked  with  Death. 

As  thus  we  sat  in  darkness, 

Each  one  busy  with  his  prayers, 

"  We  are  lost !"  the  captain  shouted, 
As  he  staggered  down  the  stairs. 

But  his  little  daughter  whispered, 

As  she  took  his  icy  hand, 
"  Isn't  God  upon  the  ocean, 

Just  the  same  as  on  the  land  ?" 

Then  we  kissed  the  little  maiden, 
And  we  spoke  in  better  cheer, 

And  we  anchored  safe  in  harbor 
When  the  morn  was  shining  clear. 

James  T.  Fields. 

CASABIANCA. 
The  boy  stood  on  the  burning  deck 

Whence  all  but  he  had  fled  ; 
The  flame  that  lit  the  battle's  wreck 

Shone  round  him  o'er  the  dead. 


164 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


Yet  beautiful  and  bright  he  stood, 

As  born  to  rule  the  storm ; 
A  creature  of  heroic  blood, 

A  proud,  though  child-like  form. 

The  flames  rolled  on — he  would  not  go 
Without  his  father's  word  ; 

That  father,  faint  in  death  below, 
His  voice  no  longer  heard. 

He  called  aloud,  "  Say,  father,  say, 

If  yet  my  task  is  done?" 
He  knew  not  that  the  chieftain  lay 

Unconscious  of  his  son. 

"  Speak,  father,"  once  again  he  cried, 

"  If  I  may  yet  be  gone  !" 
And  but  the  booming  shots  replied, 

And  fast  the  flames  rolled  on. 

Upon  his  brow  he  felt  their  breath, 

And  in  his  waving  hair, 
And   looked  from  that  lone  post   of 
death 

In  still,  yet  brave  despair. 

And  shouted  but  once  more  aloud, 
"My  lather,  must  I  stay?" 

While  o'er  him  fast,  through  sail  and 
shroud, 
The  wreathing  fires  made  way. 

They  wrapt  the  ship  in  splendor  wild, 
They  caught  the  flag  on  high, 

And  streamed  above  the  gallant  child 
Like  banners  in  the  sky. 

There  came  a  burst  of  thunder-sound — 

*  The  boy  ! — oh,  where  was  he  ? 
Ask  of  the  winds  that  far  around 
With  fragments  strewed  the  sea — 

With   mast,  and   helm,  and   pennon 
fair, 
That  well  had  borne  their  part- 


But  the  noblest  thing  which  perished 
there 
Was  that  young,  faithful  heart ! 

Felicia  Dorothea  Hemans. 

FILIAL  TRUST. 
'Twas  when  the  sea  with  awful  roar 

A  little  bark  assailed, 
And  pallid  fear's  distracting  power 

O'er  each  on  board  prevailed, 

Save  one,  the  captain's  darling  child. 
Who  steadfast  viewed  the  storm  ; 

And,  cheerful,  with  composure  smiled 
At  danger's  threatening  form. 

,v  Why    sporting    thus  ?"     a    seaman 
cried, 

"  Whilst  terrors  overwhelm  ?" 
"  Why  yield  to  fear?"  the  boy  replied  ; 

u  My  father's  at  the  helm." 

NAPOLEON  AND  THE  SAILOR. 

A  TRUE  STORY. 

Napoleon's  banners  at  Boulogne 
Armed  in  our  island  every  freeman  ; 

His  navy  chanced  to  capture  one 
Poor  British  seaman. 

They  suffered  him — I  know  not  how — 
Unprisoned  on  the  shore  to  roam ; 

And  aye  was  bent  his  longing  brow 
On  England's  home. 

His  eye,  methinks,  pursued  the  flight 
Of  birds  to  Britain  halfway  over 

With  envy  ;  they  could  reach  the  white 
Dear  cliffs  of  Dover. 

A  stormy  midnight  watch,  he  thought, 
Than  this  sojourn  would  have  been 
dearer. 


LESSOXS    OF   LIFE. 


165 


If  but  the  storm  his  vessel  brought 
To  England  nearer. 

At  last,  when  care  had  banished  sleep, 
He    saw   one    morning — dreaming, 
doating — 

An  empty  hogshead  from  the  deep 
Come  shoreward  floating ; 

He  hid  it  in  a  cave,  and  wrought 
The  livelong  clay  laborious,  lurking, 

Until  he  launched  a  tiny  boat 
By  mighty  working. 

Heaven  help  us  !  'twas  a  thing  beyond 
Description  wretched :  such  a  wherry 

Perhaps  ne'er  ventured  on  a  pond, 
Or  crossed  a  ferry. 

For  ploughing  in  the  salt  sea-field 
It  would    have   made   the   boldest 
shudder ; 
Untarred,     uncompassed,     and     un- 
keeled, 
No  sail — no  rudder. 

From  neighboring  woods  he  interlaced 
His   sorry    skiff  with  wattled   wil- 
lows ; 
And  thus    equipped   he  would  have 
passed 
The  foaming  billows  ; 

But  Frenchmen   caught  him   on  the 
beach, 

His  little  Argo  sorely  jeering : 
Till  tidings  of  him  chanced  to  reach 

Napoleon's  hearing. 

With  folded  arms  Napoleon  stood, 
Serene  alike  in  peace  and  danger  ; 

And  in  his  wonted  attitude 
Addressed  the  stranger  : 


"  Rash  man  that  wouldst  yon  Channel 
pass 
On  twigs  and  staves  so  rudely  fash- 
ioned, 
Thy  heart  with  some  sweet  British  las- 
Must  be  impassioned." 

"  I  have  no  sweetheart,"  said  the  lad  : 
"  But — absent    long  from    one  an- 
other— 

Great  was  the  longing  that  I  had 
To  see  my  mother." 

"  And  so  thou  shalt,"  Napoleon  said  ; 

'*  Ye've  both  my  favor  fairly  won ; 
A  noble  mother  must  have  bred 

So  brave  a  son." 

He  gave  the  tar  a  piece  of  gold, 
And  with  a  flag  of  truce  commanded 

He  should  be  shipped  to  England  Old. 
And  safely  landed. 

Our  sailor  oft  could  scantly  shift 
To  find  a  dinner  plain  and  hearty, 

But  never  changed  the  coin  and  gift 
Of  Bonaparte. 

Thomas  Campbell. 


THE  SOLDIER'S  DREAM. 

Our  bugles  sang  truce,  for  the  night- 
cloud  had  lowered, 
And  the  sentinel  stars  set  their  watch 
in  the  sky, 
And  thousands  had  sunk  on  the  ground 
overpowered — 
The  weary  to  sleep,  and  the  wound- 
ed to  die. 

When    reposing   that    night    on    my 
pallet  of  straw. 
By  the  wolf-scaring  fagot  that  guard- 
ed the  slain, 


166 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF    POETRY 


At  the  dead  of  the  night  a  sweet  vision 
I  saw, 
And  thrice  ere  the  morning  I  dreamt 
it  again. 


Methought  from  the  battlefield's  dread- 
ful array 
Far,  far  I  had  roamed  on  a  desolate 
track  ; 
'Twas  autumn,  and  sunshine  arose  on 
the  way 
To  the  home  of  my  fathers,  that  wel- 
comed me  back. 


I  flew  to  the  pleasant  fields,  traversed 
so  oft 
In  life's  morning  march,  when  my 
bosom  was  young ; 
I  heard  m}r  own  mountain-goats  bleat- 
ing aloft., 
And  knew  the  sweet  strain  that  the 
corn-reapers  sung. 

Then  pledged  we  the  wine-cup,  and 
fondly  I  swore 
From  my  home  and  my  weeping 
friends  never  to  part ; 
My  little  ones  kissed  me  a  thousand 
times  o'er, 
And  my  wife  sobbed  aloud  in  her 
fulness  of  heart. 

"Stay,  stay  with  us!   rest;  thou  art 
weary  and  worn  !" 
And  fain  was  their  war-broken  sol- 
dier to  stay  ; 
But  sorrow  returned  with  the  dawn- 
ing of  morn, 
And  the  voice  in  my  dreaming  ear 
melted  away. 

Thomas  Campbell. 


THE  LITTLE  DRUMMER. 

'Tis  of  a  little  drummer 

The  story  I  shall  tell — 
Of  how  he  marched  to  battle, 

And  all  that  there  befell, 
Out  in  the  West  with  Lyon 

(For  once  that  name  was  true), 
For  whom  the  little  drummer  beat 
His  rat-tat-too. 

Our  army  rose  at  midnight, 
Ten  thousand  men  as  one, 

Each  slinging  on  his  knapsack 
And  snatching  up  his  gun  ; 

"Forward!''  and  off  they  started, 
As  all  good  soldiers  do, 

When  the  little  drummer  beats  for  them 
The  rat-tat-too. 

Across  a  rolling  country, 

Where  the  mist  began  to  rise, 
Past  many  a  blackened  farm-house. 

Till  the  sun  was  in  the  skies; 
Then  we  met  the  rebel  pickets, 

Who  skirmished  and  withdrew, 
While  the  little  drummer  beat  and 
beat 

The  rat-tat-too. 

Along  the  wooded  hollows 

The  line  of  battle  ran  ; 
Our  centre  poured  a  volley, 

And  the  fight  at  once  began  ; 
For  the  rebels  answered,  shouting, 

And  a  shower  of  bullets  flew ; 
But  still  the  little  drummer  beat 
His  rat-tat-too. 

He  stood  among  his  comrades, 
As  they  quickly  formed  the  line, 

And  when  they  raised  their  muskets 
He  watched  the  barrels  shine. 


LESSONS    OF    LIFE. 


16, 


When  the  volley  broke,  lie  started, 

For  war  to  him  was  new  ; 
But  still  the  little  drummer  beat 
His  rat-tut-too. 


It  was  a  sight  to  see  them, 
That  early  autumn  day — 

Our  soldiers  in  their  blue  coats, 
And  the  rebel  ranks  in  gray, 

The  smoke  that  rolled  between  them, 
The  balls  that  whistled  through, 

And  the  little  drummer  as  he  beat 
His  rat-tat-too. 


His  comrades  dropped  around  him- 
By  fives  and  tens  they  fell — 

Some  pierced  by  Minie  bullets, 
Some  torn  by  shot  and  shell. 

They  played  against  our  cannon, 
And  a  caisson's  splinters  flew, 

But  still  the  little  drummer  beat 
His  rat-tat-too. 


The  right,  the  left,  the  centre — 
The  fight  was  everywhere ; 

They  pushed  us  here — we  wavered  ; 
We  drove  and  broke  them  there. 

The  gray-backs  fixed  their  bayonets, 
And  charged  the  coats  of  blue, 

But  still  the  little  drummer  beat 
His  rat-tat-too. 


"Where  is  our  little  drummer?'' 
His  nearest  comrades  say 

When  the  dreadful  fight  is  over 
And  the  smoke  is  cleared  away. 

As  the  rebel  corps  was  scattering, 
He  urged  them  to  pursue, 

So  furiously  he  beat  and  beat 
The  rat-tat-too. 


He  stood  no  more  among  them  ; 

A  bullet,  as  it  sped, 
Had  glanced  and  struck  his  ankle, 

And  stretched  him  with  the  dead. 
He  crawled  behind  a  cannon, 

And  pale  and  paler  grew, 
But  still  the  little  drummer  beat 
His  rat-tat-too. 

They  bore  him  to  the  surgeon — 

A  busy  man  Avas  he  : 
j  "A  drummer-boy  ?  what  ails  him  ?" 

His  comrades  answered,  "See!"' 
As  they  took  him  from  the  stretcher 

A  heavy  breath  he  drew, 
And  his  little  fingers  strove  to  beat 
The  rat-tat-too. 

The  ball  had  spent  its  fury  ; 

"A  scratch,"  the  surgeon  said 
As  lie  wound  the  snowy  bandage 

Which  the  lint  was  staining  red  ; 
"  I  must  leave  you  now,  old  fellow  " 

"Oh,  take  me  back  with  you, 
For  I  know  tbe  men  are  missing  me 
And  the  rat-tat-too  /" 

Upon  his  comrade's  shoulder 
They  lifted  him  so  grand, 

With  his  dusty  drum  before  him 
And  his  drumsticks  in  his  hand, 

To  the  fiery  front  of  battle, 
That  nearer,  nearer  drew, 

And  evermore  he  beat  and  beat 
His  rat-tat-too. 

The  wounded,  as  he  passed  them, 
Looked  up  and  gave  a  cheer, 

And  one  in  dying  blessed  him, 
Between  a  smile  and  tear. 

And  the  gray-backs,  they  are  flying 
Before  the  coats  of  blue, 

For  whom  the  little  drummer  beats 
His  rat-tat-too. 


168 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


When  the  west  was  reel  with  sunset 
The  last  pursuit  was  o'er ; 

Brave  Lyon  rode  the  foremost, 
And  looked  the  name  he  bore  ; 

And  before  him,  on  his  saddle, 
As  a  weary  child  would  do, 

Sat  the  little  drummer  fast  asleep. 
With  his  rat-tat-too. 

Richard  Henry  Stoddard. 


INCIDENT  OF  THE  FRENCH  CAMP. 
You  know  we  French  stormed  Ratis- 
bon  : 

A  mile  or  so  away, 
On  a  little  mound,  Napoleon 

Stood  on  our  storming  day  ; 
With  neck  outthrust,  you  fancy  how, 

Legs  wide,  arms  locked  behind, 
As  if  to  balance  the  prone  brow. 

Oppressive  with  its  mind. 

Just    as    perhaps     he    mused,    "  My 
plans 

That  soar,  to  earth  may  fall, 
Let  once  my  army-leader  Lannes 

Waver  at  yonder  wall," 
Out    'twixt  the  battery-smokes  there 
flew 

A  rider,  bound  on  bound 
Full  galloping,  nor  bridle  drew 

Until  he  reached  the  mound. 

Then  off  there  flung  in  smiling  joy, 

And  held  himself  erect 
By  just  his  horse's  mane,  a  boy  : 

You  hardly  could  suspect — 
(So  tight  he  kept  his  lips  compressed 

Scarce  any  blood  came  through) 
You    looked   twice   ere   you  saw  his 
breast 

Was  all  but  shot  in  two. 


"  Well,"  cried  he,  "  emperor,  by  God's 
grace 

We've  got  3'OU  Ratisbon  ! 
The  marshal's  in  the  market-place, 

And  you'll  be  there  anon 
To  see  your  flag-bird  flap  his  vans 

Where  I,  to  heart's  desire,  . 
Perched     him!"       The     chief's     eye 
flashed ;  his  plans 

Soared  up  again  like  fire. 

The  chief's  eye  flashed,  but  presently 

Softened  itself,  as  sheathes 
A  film  the  mother-eagle's  eye 

When  her  bruised  eaglet  breathes  : 
"  You're  wounded  !"     "  Nay,"  his  sol- 
dier's pride 

Touched  to  the  quick,  he  said  : 
"  I'm  killed,  sire !"      And,  his  chief 
beside, 

Smiling,  the  boy  fell  dead. 

Robert  Browning. 


NO  ACT  FALLS  FRUITLESS. 

Scorn  not  the  slightest  word  or  deed, 

Nor  deem  it  void  of  power  ; 
There's  fruit  in  each  wind-wafted  seed 

That  waits  its  natal  hour. 
A    whispered    word    may   touch    the 
heart, 

And  call  it  back  to  life  ; 
A  look  of  love  bid  sin  depart, 

And  still  unholy  strife. 

No  act  falls  fruitless ;  none  can  tell 

How  vast  its  power  may  be, 
Nor  what  results  enfolded  dwell 

Within  it  silently. 
Work  on,  despair  not ;  bring  thy  mite, 

Nor  care  how  small  it  be  ; 
God  is  with  all  that  serve  the  right, 

The  hoh',  true,  and  free. 


LESSONS   OF    LIFE. 


169 


BUSY  LITTLE  HUSBANDMAN. 

I'm  a  little  husbandman, 
Work  and  labor  hard  I  can  ; 
I'm  as  happy  all  the  day 
At  my  work  as  if  'twere  play ; 
Though  I've  nothing  fine  to  wear, 
Yet  for  that  I  do  not  care. 

"When  to  work  I  go  along, 
Singing  loud  my  morning  song, 
With  my  wallet  on  my  back, 
And  my  wagon-whip  to  crack, 
Oh,  I'm  thrice  as  happy  then 
As  the  idle  gentleman. 

I've  a  hearty  appetite, 
And  I  soundly  sleep  at  night ; 
Down  I  lie  content,  and  say 
I've  been  useful  all  the  clay ; 
I'd  rather  be  a  ploughboy  than 
A  useless  little  gentleman. 


CHOICE  OF  OCCUPATIONS. 

JOHN. 

I  mean  to  be  a  soldier, 
With  uniform  quite  new ; 

I  wish  they'd  let  me  have  a  drum, 
And  be  a  captain  too : 


I  would  go  amid  the  battle, 

With  my  broadsword  in  my  hand, 

And  hear  the  cannon  rattle, 
And  the  music  all  so  grand. 

MOTHER. 

My  son,  my  son !  what  if  that  sword 

Should  strike  a  noble  heart. 
And  bid  some  loving  father 

From  his  little  ones  depart  ? 
What   comfort   would    your    waving 
plumes 

And  brilliant  dress  bestow, 
When  you  thought  upon  his  widow's 
tears, 

And  her  orphans'  cry  of  woe  ? 

WILLIAM. 

I  mean  to  be  a  President, 

And  rule  each  rising  state, 
And  hold  my  levees  once  a  week 

For  all  the  gay  and  great ; 
I'll  be  a- king,  except  a  crown — ■ 

For  that  they  won't  allow — 
And  I'll  rind  out  what  the  Tariff  is. 

That  puzzles  me  so  now. 

MOTHER. 

My  son,  my  son !  the  cares  of  state 
Are  thorns  upon  the  breast, 


170 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


That  ever  pierce  the  good  man's  heart    Yet  humbly  take  what  God  bestows, 


And  rob  him  of  his  rest ; 
The  great  and  gay  to  him  appear 

As  trifling  as  the  dust, 
For   he    knows    how    little   they   are 
worth, 

How  faithless  is  their  trust. 

LOUISA. 

1  mean  to  be  a  cottage-girl, 

And  sit  behind  a  rill, 
And  morn  and  eve  my  pitcher  there 

With  purest  water  fill ; 
And  ['11  train  a  lovely  woodbine 

Around  my  cottage-door, 
And  welcome  to  my  winter  hearth 

The  wandering  and  the  poor. 

MOTHER. 

Louisa,  dear,  a  humble  mind 

'Tis  beautiful  to  see, 
And  you  shall  never  hear  a  word 

To  check  that  mind  from  me  ; 
But  ah  !  remember  pride  may  dwell 

Beneath  the  woodbine's  shade, 
And  discontent,  a  sullen  guest, 

The  cottage-hearth  invade. 

CAROLINE. 

I  will  be  gay  and  courtly, 

And  dance  away  the  hours ; 
Music  and  sport  and  joy  shall  dwell 

Beneath  my  fairy  bowers  ; 
No  heart  shall  ache  with  sadness 

Within  my  laughing  hall, 
But  the  note  of  love  and  gladness 

Re-echo  to  my  call. 

MOTHER. 

Oh,  children  !  sad  it  makes  my  soul 
To  hear  your  playful  strain  ; 

I  cannot  bear  to  chill  your  youth 
With  images  of  pain  ; 


And,  like  His  own  fair  flowers, 
Look  up  in  sunshine  with  a  smile, 
And  gently  bend  in  showers. 


Caroline  Oilman. 


GRANDMOTHER'S  FARM. 

My  grandmother  lives  on  a  farm 

Just  twenty  miles  from  town  ; 
She's  sixty-five  }^ears  old,  she  says  ; 

Her  name  is  Grandma  Brown. 
Her  farm  is  very  large  and  fine ; 

There's  meadow,  wood,  and  field, 
And    orchards,   which   all    kinds   of 
fruits 

Most  plentifully  yield. 

Butter  she  churns,   and    makes  nice 
cheese ; 

They  are  so  busy  there, 
If  mother  would  stay  with  me  too, 

I'd  like  to  do  my  share. 
I  go  out  with  the  haymakers. 

And  tumble  on  the  hay; 
They  put  me  up  upon  the  load, 

And  home  we  drive  away. 


LESSONS    OF   LIFE. 


171 


I  go  into  the  pleasant  fields 

And  gather  berries  bright ; 
They've  many,  many  thousands  there, 

All  fresh  and  sweet  and  ripe. 
A  pretty  brook  runs  through  the  farm, 

Singing  so  soft  and  sweet : 
1  sit  upon  the  grassy  bank, 

And  bathe  my  little  feet. 


A  farmer  I  would  like  to  be, 

They  live  so  pleasantly  ; 
The}"  must  be  happy  while  they  work. 

Singing  so  cheerfully. 
I  think  I'll  save  all  that  I  get, 

And  earn  all  that  I  can, 
And  buy  me  such  a  pleasant  farm 

When  I  grow  up  a  man. 


THE  FARM. 

Bright  glows  the  east  with  blushing- 
red, 
While  yet  upon  their  homely  bed 

The  sleeping  laborers  rest ; 
And  the  pale  moon  and  silver  star 
Grow  paler  still,  and,  wandering  far, 

Sink  slowly  to  the  west. 


And  see,  behind  the  sloping  hill 
The    morning    clouds    grow   brighter 
still, 

And  all  the  shades  retire  ; 
Slowly  the  sun,  with  golden  ray, 
Breaks  forth  above  the  horizon  gray, 

And  gilds  the  distant  spire. 

And  now,  at  Nature's  cheerful  voice, 
The  hills  and  vales  and  woods  rejoice ; 


The  lark  ascends  the  skies, 
And  soon  the  cock's  shrill  notes  alarm 
The  sleeping  people  at  the  farm, 

And  bid  them  all  arise. 

Then  at  the  dairy's  cool  retreat 
The  busy  maids  and  mistress  meet 

The  early  hour  to  seize  : 
Some    tend    with    skilful    hand    the 

churns, 
Where  the  thick  cream  to  butter  turns. 

And  some  the  curdling  cheese. 

And    now   comes   Thomas   from   the 

house, 
With  well-known  cry  to  call  the  cows, 

Still  resting  on  the  plain ; 
They,  quickly  rising  one  and  all, 
Obedient  to  the  daily  call, 

Wind  slowly  through  the  lane. 


172 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF    POETRY. 


And  see  the  rosy  milkmaid  now 
Seated  behind  the  horned  cow, 

With  milking-stool  and  pail ; 
The  patient  cow,  with  dappled  hide, 
Stands  still,  unless  to  lash  her  side 

With  her  convenient  tail. 

And  then  the  poultry,  Mary's  charge, 
Must  all  be  fed  and  let  at  large 

To  roam  about  again ; 
Wide  open  swings  the  great  barn-door, 
And  out  the  hungry  creatures  pour 

To  pick  the  scattered  grain. 

The  sun-burnt  laborer  hastens  now 
To  plod  behind  the  heavy  plough, 

And  guide  with  skilful  arm  ; 
Thus  all  is  industry  around ; 
No  idle  hand  is  ever  found 

Within  the  busy  farm. 

Jane  Taylor. 


FARM-YARD  SONG. 

Over  the  hill  the  farm-boy  goes  ; 
His  shadow  lengthens  along  the  land, 
A  giant  staff  in  a  giant  hand  ; 
In  the  poplar  tree,  above  the  spring, 
The  katydid  begins  to  sing ; 

The  early  dews  are  falling  ; — 
Into  the  stone-heap  darts  the  mink  ; 
The  swallows  skim  the  river's  brink  ; 


And  home  to  the  woodland  fly  the 

crows, 
When  over  the  hill  the  farm-boy  goes, 
Cheerily  calling, — 
"  Co',  boss  !  co',  boss  !  co' !  co' !  co' !" 
Farther,  farther  over  the  hill, 
Faintly  calling,  calling  still, — 
"  Co',  boss  !  co',  boss  !  co' !  oo' !" 

Into  the  yard  the  farmer  goes, 
With  grateful  heart,  at  the  close  of  day : 
Harness  and  chain  are  hung  away  ; 
In  the  wagon-shed  stand  yoke   and 

plough  ; 
The  straw's  in  the  stack,  the  hay  in 
the  mow, 
The  cooling  dews  are  falling  ; — 
The  friendly  sheep  his  welcome  bleat, 
The  pigs  come  grunting  to  his  feet, 
The     whinnying    mare     her    master 

knows, 
When  into  the  yard  the  farmer  goes, 
His  cattle  calling, — 
"  Co',  boss  !  co',  boss  !  co' !  co' !  co' !" 
While  still  the  cow-boy,  far  away, 
Goes  seeking   those   that   have   gone 
astray, — 
"  Co',  boss  !  co',  boss!  co' !  co'!" 

Now  to  her  task  the  milkmaid  goes. 
The    cattle    come    crowding   through 

the  gate, 
Lowing,  pushing,  little  and  great ; 


LESSONS    OF   LIFE. 


173 


About  the  trough,  by  the  farm-yard 
pump, 

The   frolicsome    yearlings    frisk   and 
jump 
While  the  pleasant  dews    are  fall- 
in  cr  • 

The  new  milch  heifer  is  quick  and  shy, 
But  the  old  cow  waits  with  tranquil 

eye; 
And  the  white  stream  into  the  bright 

pail  flows, 
When  to  her  task  the  milkmaid  goes, 
Soothingly  calling, — 
"  So,  boss  !  so,  boss  !  so  !  so  !  so !" 
The  cheerful  milkmaid  takes  her  stool, 
And  sits  and  milks  in  the   twilight 
cool, 
Saying,  "  So,  so,  boss  !  so  !  so  !" 


To  supper  at  last  the  farmer  goes  ; 
The  apples  are  pared,  the  paper  read, 
The  stories  are  told,  then  all  to  bed. 
Without,  the  crickets'  ceaseless  song 
Makes  shrill  the  silence  all  night  long  ; 

The  heavy  dews  are  falling. 
The  housewife's  hand  has  turned  the 

lock  ; 
Drowsily  ticks  the  kitchen-clock  ; 
The  household  sinks  to  deep  repose; 
But  still  in  sleep  the  farm-boy  goes, 

Singing,  calling, — 
"  Co',  boss  !  co'.  boss  !  co' !  co' !  co'  P 
And  oft  the  milkmaid  in  her  dreams, 
Drums  in  the  pail  with  the  flashing 

streams, 
Murmuring,  "  So,  boss  !  so 


i" 


John  T.  Tkowbkidge. 


174 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF    POETRY. 


MORNING  SONG  IN  THE  COUNTRY. 

Come  out  of  your  beds,  there  V 

The  cock  loudly  crows — 
The  birds  they  are  singing, 

The  morning  wind  blows ; 
And  see,  the  red  morning 

So  gayly  is  here, 
On  meadow,  on  brooklet, 

The  sunbeams  shine  clear. 

Take  coats  from  the  cupboard, 

Take  hats  from  the  wall, 
Take  scythe,  and  take  sickle, 

And  hayfork,  and  all — 
The  maids  to  the  meadow, 

The  men  to  the  field, 
That  corn-field  and  hay-field 

Good  harvest  may  yield. 

And  while  ye  are  sowing 

And  ploughing  for  food, 
Look  gratefully  up  to 

The  Giver  of  good, 
Who  sends  us  our  bread, 

By  His  mercy  and  power, 
And  blessing  and  increase, 

And  sunshine  and  shower. 


THE  MILKMAID. 

On,  happy  the  milkmaid's  life, 

Passed  among  hill  and  glen, 
Far  from  the  city's  strife 

And  the  noise  and  din  of  men. 
She  rises  with  early  dawn, 

With  a  heart  all  free  from  care, 
And,  taking  her  snowy  pail, 

Goes  forth  in  the  dewy  air. 

Such  pleasant  things  abound 

in  earth,  in  air  above; 
All  Nature  seems  around 

To  tell  of  life  and  love. 


The  pigeon  sings  its  lay 

In  the  wood  beyond  the  brook, 
And  fragrant  flowers  grow 

In  every  sunny  nook. 

And  soon  the  sun  will  tinge 

The  top  of  the  poplar  trees, 
Whose  leaves  are  dancing  now 

In  the  early  morning  breeze ; 
And  the  bees  are  gathering  in 

The  honey  of  the  limes  ; 
Oh,  'tis  pleasant  on  summer  morns 

To  be  up  and  abroad  betimes. 


And  though  in  winter  days 

Come  frost  and  cold  and  snow, 
And  the  far  sun's  feeble  rays 

Give  forth  no  kindly  glow, 
There's  pleasure  even  then 

In  the  milkmaid's  daily  life, 
For  around  duty's  paths 

Blessinsrs  are  ever  rife. 


A  FAREWELL. 

My  fairest  child,  I  have  no    song  to 
give  you  ; 
No  lark  could  pipe  to  skies  so  dull 
and  gray  ; 
Yet,   ere   we   part,   one   lesson   I  can 
leave  you 
For  every  day  : 

Be  good,  sweet  maid,  and  let  who  will 
be  clever ; 
Do  noble  things,  not  dream  them, 
all  day  long ; 
And  so  make  life,  death,  and  that  vast 
Forever 
One  grand,  sweet  song. 

Charles  Kingsley. 


ANIMALS  AND   BIRDS, 


Animals  and  Birds 


THE  LION. 

Lion,  thou  art  girt  with  might ! 
King  by  uncontested  right ; 
Strength  and  majesty  and  pride 
Are  in  thee  personified  ! 
Slavish  doubt  or  timid  fear 
Never  come  thy  spirit  near  ; 


What  it  is  to  fly,  or  bow 
To  a  mightier  than  thou, 
Never  has  been  known  to  thee, 
Creature  terrible  and  free ! 

Power  the  Mightiest  gave  the  lion 
Sinews  like  to  bands  of  iron  ; 


Gave  him  force  which  never  failed, 
Gave  him  heart  that  never  quailed. 
Triple-mailed  coat  of  steel, 
Plates  of  brass  from  head  to  heel, 
Less  defensive  were  in  wearing 
Than  the  lion's  heart  of  daring ; 

12 


Nor  could  towers  of  strength  impart 
Trust    like     that    which     keeps    his 
heart, 

What  are  things  to  match  with  him? 
Serpents  old,  and  strong,  and  grim, 

177 


178 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


Seas  upon  a  desert  shore, 
Mountain-wildernesses  hoar, 
Night  and  storm,  and  earthquakes  dire, 
Thawless  frost  and  raging  fire — 
All  that's  strong  and  stern  and  dark, 
All  that  doth  not  miss  its  mark, 
All  that  makes  man's  nature  tremble, 
Doth  the  desert-king  resemble ! 


When  he  sends  his  roaring  forth, 
Silence  falls  upon  the  earth  ; 
For  the  creatures,  great  and  small, 
Know  his  terror-breathing  call, 
And,  as  if  by  death  pursued, 
Leave  to  him  a  solitude. 


Lion,  thou  art  made  to  dwell 
In  hot  lands  intractable ; 
And  thyself,  the  sun,  the  sand, 
Are  a  tyrannous  triple-band. 
Lion-king  and  desert  throne, 
All  the  region  is  your  own  ! 

Mary  Howitt. 


THE  TIGER. 

Tiger  !  tiger !  burning  bright, 
In  the  forest  of  the  night, 
What  immortal  hand  or  eye 
Could  frame  thy  fearful  symmetry  ? 

In  what  distant  deeps  or  skies 
Burned  the  ardor  of  thine  eyes  ? 
On  what  wings  dare  he  aspire  ? 
What  the  hand  dare  seize  the  fire  ? 


And  what  shoulder,  and  what  art, 
Could  twist  the  sinews  of  thy  heart? 
And  when  thy  heart  began  to  beat, 
What  dread  hand   forged  thy  dread 
feet  ? 


What  the  hammer,  what  the  chain  ? 
In  what  furnace  was  thy  brain  ? 
What  the  anvil ;  what  dread  grasp 
Dare  its  deadly  terrors  clasp  ? 


When    the    stars    threw    down    their 

spears, 
And  watered  heaven  with  their  tears, 
Did  He  smile  His  work  to  see? 
Did  He  who  made  the  lamb  make 

thee  ? 


Tiger !  tiger !  burning  bright, 
In  the  forest  of  the  night. 
What  immortal  hand  or  eye 
Dare  frame  thy  fearful  symmetry  ? 

William  Blake. 


THE  ELEPHANT  AND  THE  CHILD. 
The  arching  trees  above  a  path 

Had  formed  a  pleasant  shade, 
And   here,   to   screen   him    while   he 
slept, 

An  infant  boy  was  laid. 

His  mother  near  him  gathered  fruit, 
But  soon  with  fear  she  cried, 

For,  slowly  moving  down  the  path, 
An  elephant  she  spied. 

The   sticks   he   crushed    beneath   his 
feet 

Had  waked  the  sleeping  child, 
Who  pushed  aside  the  waving  curls, 

And  looked  at  him,  and  smiled. 

The  mother  could  not  reach  the  spot — 
With  fear  she  held  her  breath — 

And  there  in  agony  she  stood 
To  see  him  crushed  to  death. 


ANIMALS   AND    BIRDS. 


179 


His  heavy  foot  the  monster  held 

A  while  above  the  boy, 
Who  laughed  to  see  it  moving  there, ' 

And  clapped  his  hands  with  joy. 

The  mother  saw  it  reach  the  ground 

Beyond  her  infant  son, 
And  watched  till  every  foot  was  safe 

Across  the  little  one. 

She  caught  the  infant  from  the  ground, 
For  there,  unharmed,  he  lay, 

And   could   have  thanked  the  noble 
beast, 
Who  slowty  stalked  away. 


THE   CAMEL. 

Camel,  thou  art  good  and  mild, 
Mightst  be  guided  by  a  child  ; 
Thou  wast  made  for  usefulness, 
Man  to  comfort  and  to  bless ; 
Thou  dost  clothe  him,  thou  dost  feed, 
Thou  dost  lend  to  him  thy  speed, 
And  through  wilds  of  trackless  sand 
In  the  hot  Arabian  land, 
Where  no  rock  its  shadow  throws, 
Where  no  pleasant  water  flows, 
Where  the  hot  air  is  not  stirred 
By  the  wing  of  singing  bird, — 
There  thou  goest,  untired  and  meek, 
Day  by  day,  and  week  by  week, 
Bearing  freight  of  precious  things — 
Silks  for  merchants,  gold  for  kings, 
Pearls  of  Ormuz,  riches  rare, 
Damascene  and  Indian  ware — 
Bale  on  bale,  and  heap  on  heap, 
Freighted  like  a  costly  ship  ! 

When  the  red  simoom  comes  near, 
Camel,  dost  thou  know  no  fear  ? 
When  the  desert  sands  uprise, 
Flaming  crimson  to  the  skies, 


And,  like  pillared  giants  strong, 
Stalk  the  dreary  waste  along, 
Bringing  Death  unto  his  prey, 
Does  not  thy  good  heart  give  way  ? 
Camel,  no  !  thou  dost  for  man 
All  thy  generous  nature  can  : 
Thou  dost  lend  to  him  thy  speed 
In  that  awful  time  of  need ; 
And  when  the  simoom  goes  by 
Teach  est  him  to  close  his  eye, 
And  bow  down  before  the  blast, 
Till  the  purple  death  has  passed  ! 

And  when  week  by  week  is  gone. 

And  the  traveller  journeys  on 

Feebly — when  his  strength  is  fled. 

And  his  hope  and  heart  seem  dead. 

Camel,  thou  dost  turn  thine  eye 

On  him  kindly,  soothingly, 

As  if  cheeringly  to  say, 

"  Journey  on  for  this  one  day  ! 

Do  not  let  thy  heart  despond  ; 

There  is  water  yet  beyond, 

I  can  scent  it  in  the  air ; 

Do  not  let  thy  heart  despair !" 

And  thou  guid'st  the  traveller  there. 

Camel,  thou  art  good  and  mild, 
Mightst  be  guided  by  a  child ; 
Thou  wast  made  for  usefulness, 
Man  to  comfort  and  to  bless ; 
And  these  desert  wastes  must  be 
Untracked  regions  but  for  thee ! 

Mary  Howitt. 


THE  SAILOR  AND  THE  MONKEYS. 

Once,  in  the  hope  of  honest  gain 

From  Afric's  golden  store, 
A  brisk  young  sailor  crossed  the  main 

And  landed  on  her  shore ; 

And,  leaving  soon  the  sultry  strand 
Where  his  fair  vessel  lay, 


180 


THE    CHILDREN'S    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 


He    travelled    o'er    the    neighboring 
land 
To  trade  in  peaceful  way. 

Full  many  a  toy  had  he  to  sell, 

And  caps  of  scarlet  dye  ; 
All  such  things,  he  knew  full  well, 

Would  please  the  natives'  eye. 

But  as  he  travelled  through  the  woods 

He  longed  to  take  a  nap ; 
And  opening  there  his  pack  of  goods, 

Took  out  a  scarlet  cap, 

And  drew  it  on  his  head,  thereby 
To  shield  him  from  the  sun  ; 

Then  soundly  slept,  nor  thought  an 
eye 
Had  seen  what  he  had  done. 

But  many  a  monkey  dwelling  there, 
Though  hidden  from  his  view, 

Had  closely  watched  the  whole  affair, 
And  longed  to  do  so  too  ; 

And   while    he   slept    did    each   one 
seize 

A  cap  to  deck  his  brows  ; 
Then  climbing  up  the  highest  trees, 

Sat  chattering  on  the  boughs. 

The  sailor  waked,  his  caps  were  gone. 
And  loud  and  long  he  grieves, 

Till,  looking  up  with  heart  forlorn. 
He  spied  the  little  thieves. 

With  cap  of  red  upon  each  head, 

Full  fifty  faces  grim, 
The  sailors  sees  amid  the  trees, 

With  eyes  all  fixed  on  him. 

He  brandished  quick  a  mighty  stick, 
But  could  not  reach  their  bower, 

Nor  yet  could  stone,  for  every  one 
Was  far  beyond  his  power. 


"  Alas !"     he    thought,    "  I've    safely 
brought 

My  caps  far  over  seas, 
But  could  not  guess  it  was  to  dress 

Such  little  rogues  as  these." 

Then  quickly  down  he  threw  his  own. 

And  loud  in  anger  cried, 
"  Take  this  one  too,  you  thievish  crew, 

Since  you  have  all  beside." 

But  quick  as  thought  the  caps  were 
caught 

From  every  monkey's  crown, 
And  like  himself  each  little  elf 

Threw  his  directly  down. 

He  then  with  ease  did  gather  these. 
And  in  his  pack  did  bind  ; 

Then  through  the  woods  conveyed  his 
goods, 
And  sold  them  to  his  mind. 


THE 


ARAB'S  FAREWELL  TO  HIS 
HORSE. 


that 


My    beautiful !    my    beautiful ! 

standest  meekly  by, 
With  thy  prouclly-arched  and  glossy 

neck  and  dark  and  fiery  eye, 
Fret  not  to  roam  the  desert  now,  with 

all  thy  winged  speed ; 
I    may    not  mount  on   thee   again — 

thou'rt  sold,  my  Arab  steed  ! 
Fret  not  with  that   impatient  hoof- 
snuff  not  the  breezy  wind — 
The  farther  that  thou  fiiest  now,  so 

far  am  I  behind  ; 
The  stranger  hath   thy  bridle-rein — 

thy  master  hath  his  gold — 
Fleet-limbed  and  beautiful,  farewell ; 

thou'rt    sold,    my    steed,   thou'rt 

sold. 


ANIMALS   AND    BIRDS. 


181 


Farewell !    those   free,  untired   limbs 

full  many  a  mile  must  roam 
To  reach  the  chill  and  wintry    sky 

which  clouds  the  stranger's  home; 
Some  other  hand,  less  fond,  must  now 

thy  corn  and  bed  prepare, 
Thy  silky  mane,  I  braided  once,  must 

be  another's  care ! 
The  morning  sun  shall  dawn   again. 

but  never  more  with  thee 
Shall   I   gallop    through    the    desert 

paths  where  we  were  wont  to  be  ; 
Evening  shall  darken    on  the  earth, 

and  o'er  the  sandy  plain 
Some   other  steed,  with   slower   step, 

shall  bear  me  home  again. 

Yes,   thou   must   go !    the  wild,   free 

breeze,  the  brilliant  sun  and  sky, 
Thy  master's  home, — from  all  of  these 

my  exiled  one  must  fly  ; 
Thy    proud  dark  eye  will  grow  less 

proud,  thy  step  become  less  fleet, 
And  vainly  shalt  thou  arch  thy  neck 

thy  master's  hand  to  meet. 


Only  in  sleep  shall  I  behold  that  dark 

eye,  glancing  bright ; — 
Only  in  sleep  shall  hear  again  that 

step  so  firm  and  light ; 
And  when  I  raise  my  dreaming  arm 

to  check  or  cheer  thy  speed, 
Then  must  I,  starting,  wake  to  feel, — 

thou'rt  sold,  my  Arab  steed  ! 

Ah  !  rudely  then,  unseen  by  me,  some 

cruel  hand  may  chide, 
Till    foam-wreaths    lie,    like    crested 

waves,  along  thy  panting  side : 
And   the   rich    blood   that's   in   thee 

swells,  in  thy  indignant  pain. 
Till  careless  eyes,  which  rest  on  thee. 

may  count  each  started  vein. 
Will  they  ill-use  thee  ?     If  I  thought 

— but  no,  it  cannot  be — 
Thou  art  so  swift,  yet  easy  curbed ;  so 

gentle,  yet  so  free  : 
And  yet,  if  haply,  when  thou'rt  gone, 

my  lonely  heart  should  yearn — 
Can  the  hand  which  casts  thee  from  it 

now  command  thee  to  return  '? 


182 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


Return  !  alas  !   my  Arab  steed  !  what 

shall  thy  master  do 
When  thou,  who  wast  his  all  of  joy, 

hast  vanished  from  his  view  ? 
When  the  dim  distance  cheats  mine 

e}re,  and   through   the  gathering 

tears 
Thy  bright  form,  for  a  moment,  like 

the  false  mirage  appears  ; 
Slow  and   unmounted   shall  I  roam, 

with  weary  step  alone, 
Where,   with   fleet   step   and    joyous 

bound,  thou  oft  hast  borne  me  on ; 
And  sitting  down  by  that  green  well 

I'll  pause  and  sadly  think, 
"  It  was  here  he  bowed  his  glossy  neck 

when  last  I  saw  him  drink  !" 

When  last  I  saw  thee   clrink  ! — Away  ! 

the  fevered  dream  is  o'er — 
I  could  not  live  a  day  and  know  that 

we  should  meet  no  more  ! 
They  tempted   me,  my   beautiful! — 

for  hunger's  power  is  strong — 
They  tempted  me,  my  beautiful !  but 

I  have  loved  too  long. 
Who  said  that  I  had  given  thee  up  ? 

who  said  that  thou  wast  sold  ? 
'Tis  false — 'tis  false,  my  Arab  steed !  I 

fling  them  back  their  gold  ! 
Thus,  thus,  I  leap  upon  thy  back,  and 

scour  the  distant  plains  ; 
Away !    who  overtakes  us  now  shall 

claim  thee  for  his  pains  ! 

Caroline  Nokton. 

THE  BLIND  STEED. 
"  What  bell-house,  yonder,  towers  in 
sight 
Above  the  market-square? 
The  wind  sweeps  through  it  day  and 
night ; 
No  gate  nor  door  is  there. 


Speaks  joy  or  terror  in  the  tone 
When  neighbors  hear  the  bell  ? 

And   that    tall    steed    of   sculptured 
stone — 
What  doth  the  statue  tell?" 

"  Not  the   first    stranger,   friend,   art 
thou 

That  hath  such  knowledge  sought ; 
What  say  our  chronicles  shall  now 

To  thee  be  freely  taught. 
The  Doom-hell  of  Ingratitude, 

The  precious  relic's  name : 
Shades    of    brave     sires     around    it 
brood, — 

Their  memory  is  its  fame. 

"  Ingratitude  was,  even  then, 

An  envious  world's  base  meed  ; 
And  so  those  upright,  ancient  men 

This  warning  sign  decreed  : 
Whoso  had  felt  that  serpent's  sting, 

To  him  was  given  the  power 
With  his   own  hand,  straightway,  to 
ring 

The  doom-bell  in  the  tower. 

"  Then  came  the  ministers  of  law 

Together — though  'twere  night, — 
Inquired,  examined,  heard,  and  saw 

Where  lay  the  injured  right. 
Unheeding  title,  rank,  or  gold, 

Unknowing  lord  or  slave, 
A  righteous  sentence,  free  and  bold, 

The  honest  judges  gave. 

"  A  hundred  years  ago,  or  more, 

A  citizen  lived  here 
Whose  thrifty  toil  and  goodly  store 

Were  famed  both  far  and  near. 
His  dress,  his  cellar,  and  his  sheep 

His  wealth  might  well  declare  ; 
And  he  was  pleased  and  proud  to  keep 

A  steed  of  beauty  rare. 


ANIMALS   AND    BIRDS. 


183 


"  Once  on  a  time,  as  he  rode  by 

A  forest  late  at  night, 
A\'ith  tiger-spring  and  murder-cry 

►Six  robbers  hove  in  sight. 
His  life,  hard  pressed  before,  behind, 

Hung  trembling  by  a  hair; 
But   his   good   steed,  with   speed    of 
wind, 

Soon  snatched  him  from  the  snare. 

"The   faithful   beast,  all  white   with 
foam, 

Brought  off  without  a  wound 
His  grateful  lord,  who,  once  at  home, 

His  horse's  praise  did  sound. 
A  vow  he  made,  and,  swearing,  sealed  : 

'  Henceforth  I'll  give  my  gray 
The  best  of  oats  the  land  can  yield 

Until  he  turns  to  clay.' 

"  But  the  good  beast  fell  sick  at  last, 

Grew  lame,  and  stiff,  and  blind. 
And  his  forgetful  master  fast 

Renounced  his  grateful  mind. 
He   sought  to    sell    him    cheap,    oh 
fie! 

And,  what  was  worst  of  all, 
When  none  at  any  price  would  buy, 

He  kicked  him  from  the  stall ! 

"  Fur  seven  long  hours,  with  drooping 
head, 

Close  to  his  master's  gate, 
Pricking  his  ears  at  every  tread, 

That  patient  beast  did  wait. 
The    stars    came    out    all    cold    and 
bright ; 

None  pitied  his  bare  bones  ; 
And  there  he  lay,  the  livelong  night, 

Out  on  the  icy  stones. 

"  And  when  uprose  another  morn, 
There  the  poor  nag  still  stood, 


184 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


Till  driven  by  hunger's  goading  thorn 

To  stir  in  quest  of  food. 
The  sun  o'er  all  his  radiance  flings,  " 

But  midnight  veils  his  head  ; 
And  he  who  once  seemed  clothed  with 
wings 

Now  creeps  with  dubious  tread. 

"  Before  each  tread  his  lifted  hoof 

Groped  forth  to  feel  the  way, 
And,  step  by  step,  with  certain  proof, 

Its  soundness  to  assay. 
Through  all  the  streets  he,  fumbling 
so, 
Grazed      with      his      mouth      the 
ground ; 
And     'twas     a     windfall,    }>ou    may 
know, 
When  some  stray  straw  he  found. 

"  Once,  thus   urged   on   by   hunger's 
power, 

All  skin  and  bone — oh  shame ! — 
The  skeleton,  at  midnight  hour, 

Up  to  the  bell-house  came. 
He    stumbled    in,    and     chanced    to 
grope 

Near  where  the  hemp  rope  hangs  ; 
His  gnawing  hunger  jerks  the  rope, 

And,  hark !  the  doom-bell  clangs ! 

"  The  judges  hear  the  midnight  cry, 

Straight  to  the  tower  repair. 
And   lift  their  wondering  hands   on 
high 
To  see  such  plaintiff  there. 
They  went  not  back,  with  gibe   and 
joke, 
To  curse  the  untimely  clang  : 
Amazed,  they  cried,     '  'Twas  God  that 
spoke, 
When  the  stern  doom-bell  rang  V 


"  And   the    rich   man    is    summoned 
now 

Straight  to  the  market-square ; 
Half  waked,   he     fiercely    knits    his 
brow, — 

'  You  dream !  who  wants  me  there?" 
He  went  defiant,  but  his  mood 

To  meekness  changed  with  speed, 
When  in  the  judges'  midst  he  stood. 

Confronted  with  his  steed. 

"  '  Know  you  this  beast  ?'    Fr&m  his 
high  seat 

Thus  the  chief  justice  said  : 
'  But  for  his  fleet  and  faithful  feet 

Your  life  long  since  had  fled ! 
And  what  rewards  such  signal  worth  ? 

Thou  spurnest  him  away, 
O  man  of  ice  !  the  rabble's  mirth 

And  gaunt  starvation's  prey ! 

"  '  The  doom-bell  sounded  out  its  call. 

The  plaintiff  here  you  see  ; 
Your  crime  is  manifest  to  all. 

And  so  we  do  decree, 
That   you    henceforth    your   faithful 
steed 

Home  to  your  stable  take, 
And,    like    a    Christian,    nurse    and 
feed 

Till  death,  for  mercy's  sake  !' 

"  The   mean   rich  man    dumfounded 
stood, 

The  verdict  vexed  him  sore ; 
Yet  felt  he  his  ingratitude, 

And  took  his  steed  once  more. 
So  in  the  chronicles  is  traced 

The  story,  plain  and  fair ; 
And  for  a  monument  they  placed 

The  stone-hewn  statue  there." 

Translated  from  the  German  by  the 

Rev.  C.  T.  Brooks. 


ANIMALS   AND    BIRDS. 


1*5 


THE  BONNIE  MiLK-COW. 

"  Moo  !  moo  !  pretty  lady  !" 

Bairnies  want  their  supper  now. 

Lowing  in  the  twilight  hour, 
Comes  my  bonnie  cow. 

Buttercups  and  clover  green 

All  day  long  her  feast  have  been  ; 

She  comes  laden  home  at  e'en — 
She  is  coming  now. 

Bairnies  for  their  porridge  fret — 

"  Proo,  Hawkie !  proo  !" 
And  milk  must  have,  their  mouths  to 
wet, 

Sweet  and  warm  from  you. 


Other  cows  go  dry,  they  tell ; 
Hawkie  ne'er  was  known  to  fail, 
But  aye  she  fills  the  foaming  pail — 
"  Proo,  Hawkie  !  proo  !" 

Best  of  butter,  best  of  cheese, 

"  Proo,  Hawkie !  proo!" 
That  well  the  daintiest  may  please, 

Yields  my  gentle  cow  ; 
When  the  good  wife  stirs  the  tea, 
Sweeter  cream  there  cannot  be — 
Such  curds  and  whey  you'll  seldom 
see; 

"  Proo,  Hawkie  !  proo  !" 

Alexander  Smart. 


THE  BOY  AND  THE  ASS.  \  "  Dear  boy,  that's  too  hard  and  too 

"  Donkey,  I'll  ask  you  a  riddle  to-day  :  deep  for  me ; 

What  is  that  creature  whose  hide  is    Pray  tell  me  what  may  this  creature 

gray,  be  ?" 

Whose  ears  are  large,  and  whose  sense  ■ 

is  small,  !  Then  the  boy  laughed.loudly,  and  said. 

Who  cries  '  Ye-awP  and  walks  with  a  "  Go  to  ! 

lazy  crawl?"  i  You  foolish  donkey,  I  spoke  of  you." 


186 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


The  ass  pricked  his  ears,  but  could  not  !  The  sun  has  gone  down  :  it  is  time  to 

make  out  go  home  ; 

Whatever  the  boy  was  talking  about,    j  Mooly  cow,  mooly  cow,  why  don't  you 


And   the   child   went  away — he  was 

wrong,  I  confess, 
For  who'd  give  a  donkey  a  riddle  to 

guess  ? 


THANK  YOU,  PRETTY  COW. 

Thank  you,  pretty  cow,  that  made 
Pleasant  milk  to  soak  my  bread, 
Every  day  and  every  night, 
Warm  and  sweet  and  fresh  and  white. 

Do  not  chew  the  hemlock  rank 
Growing  on  the  weedy  bank- 
But  the  yellow  cowslips  eat ; 
They  will  make  it  very  sweet. 

Where  the  bubbling  water  flows, 
Where  the  purple  violet  grows, 
Where  the  grass  is  fresh  and  fine, 
Pretty  cow,  go  there  and  dine. 

Jane  Taylor. 

THE  COW-BOY'S  SONG. 

k"  Mooly  cow,  mooly  cow,  home  from 

the  wood, 
They  sent  me  to  fetch  you  as  fast  as  I 

could. 


come  ? 

Your  udders  are  full,  and  the  milkmaid 
is  there, 

And  the  children  all  waiting  their  sup- 
per to  share. 

I  have  let  the  long  bars  down  ;  why 
don't  you  pass  through  ?" 

The  mooly  cow  only  said,  "  Moo-o-o!" 

"  Mooly  cow,  mooly  cow,  have  you  not 

been 
Regaling  all  day  where  the  pastures 

are  green  ? 
No  doubt  it  was  pleasant,  dear  mooly, 

to  see 
The  clear-running  brook  and  the  wide- 
spreading  tree, 
The  clover  to  crop  and  the  streamlet  to 

wade, 
To  drink  the  cool  water  and  lie  in  the 

shade ; 
But  now  it  is  night :  they  are  waiting 

for  you." 
The  mooly  cow  only  said,  "  Moo-o-o!" 

"  Mooly  cow,  mooly  cow,  where  do  you 

go 
When  all  the  green  pastures  are  cov- 
ered with  snow  ? 
You  go  to  the  barn,  and  we  feed  you 

with  hay, 
And  the  maid  goes  to  milk  you  there 

every  day ; 
She   pats    you,   she    loves    you,   she 

strokes  your  sleek  hide, 
She  speaks  to  you  kindly,  and  sits  by 

your  side ; 
Then  come  along  home,  pretty  mooly 

cow,  do !" 
The  mooly  cow  only  said,  "  Moo-o-o!" 


ANIMALS   AND    BIRDS. 


187 


"Mooly  cow,  mooly  cow,  whisking  your  \  What  can  you  be  staring  at,  mooly? 

tail,  You  know 

The  milkmaid  is  waiting,  I  say,  with    That  we  ought  to  have  gone  home  an 

her  pail ;  hour  ago. 

She  tucks  up  her  petticoats,  tidy  and    How  dark  it  is  growing !     Oh,  what 

neat,  shall  I  do  ?" 

And  places  the  three-legged  stool  for  '  The  mooly  cow  only  said,  "  Moo-o-o !" 

her  seat.  '  anna  m.  wells. 


THAT  CALF !  Now  the  little  calf  Spot,  she  was  down 

To  the  yard  by  the  barn  came  the  farm-  in  the  lot ; 

er  one  morn,  And  the  way  the  rest  talked  was  a 

And,  calling  the  cattle,  he  said,  shame  ; 

While  they  trembled  with  fright,  "Now    For  no  one,  night  before,  saw  her  shut 
which  of  you  last  night  .  up  the  door  ; 

Shut   the    barn-door  while    I  was  :      But  they  said  that  she  did,  all  the 

abed  ?"  same, 

Each  one   of  them    all   shook   his  |      For  they  always  made  her  take  the 
head.  blame. 


188 


THE    CHILDREN'S    BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


Said  the  horse  (dapple  gray),  "  I  was 
not  up  that  way 
Last  night,  as  I  now  recollect;" 
And  the  bull,  passing  by,  tossed  his 
horns  very  high, 
And  said,  "  Let  who  may  here  ob- 
ject, 
I  say  'tis  that  calf  I  suspect!" 

Then  out  spoke  the  cow :  "  It  is  terrible 

now 
To   accuse    honest    folks    of    such 

tricks." 
Said  the  cock  in  the  tree,  "  I'm  sure 

'twasn't  me;" 
And   the   sheep  all   cried,  "  Bah !" 

(there  were  six;, 
"  Now  that   calf s  got  herself  in  a 

fix  !" 

"  Why,  of  course  we  all  knew  'twas 
the  wrong  thing  to  do," 
Said   the   chickens.     "  Of    course,'-' 
said  the  cat; 
"I  suppose,"  cried  the  mule,  ''some 
folks  think  me  a  fool, 
But  I'm  not  quite  so  simple  as  that; 
The  poor  calf   never  knows  what 
she's  at." 

Just  that  moment  the  calf,  who  was 
always  the  laugh 
And  the  jest  of  the  yard,  came  in 
sight. 
"  Did  you  slrat  my  barn-door?"  asked 
the  farmer  once  more. 
"  I  did,  sir;  I  closed  it  last  night," 
Said  the  calf;  "and  I  thought  that 
was  right." 

Then  each  one  shook  his  head.    "  She 
will  catch  it,"  they  said ; 
"Serve   her  right  for  her  meddle- 
some way !" 


Said  the  farmer,  "  Come  here,  little 
bossy,  my  dear; 

You  have  done  what  I  cannot  re- 
pay, 

And  your  fortune  is  made  from  to- 
day. 

"  For  a  wonder,  last  night  I  forgot  the 

door  quite, 

And  if  you  had  not  shut  it  so  neat 

All  my  colts  had  slipped  in,  and  gone 

right  to  the  bin, 

And   got  what  they  ought   not  to 

eat — 
They'd  have  foundered  themselves 
upon  wheat." 

Then  each  hoof  of  them  all   began 
loudly  to  bawl ; 

The  very  mule   smiled ;    the  cock 
crew. 
"  Little  Spotty,  my  dear,  you're  a  fa- 
vorite here," 

They  cried.  "  We  all  said  it  was 
you  ; 

We  were  so  glad  to  give  you  your 
due !" 

And  the  calf  answered,  knowingly, 
"Boo!" 

Phcebe  Cary. 


NURSERY  SONG. 

As  I  walked  over  the  hill  one  day, 

I  listened,  and  heard  a  mother-sheep 
say, 

"  In  all  the  green  world  there  is  noth- 
ing so  sweet 

As  my  little  lammie,  with  his  nimble 
feet ; 
With  his  eye  so  bright, 
And  his  wool  so  white, 

Oh,  he  is  my  darling,  my  heart's  de- 
light!" 


ANIMALS   AND    BIRDS. 


189 


And  the  mother-sheep  and  her  little    I  heard  her  say,  "  The  sun  never  did 

one  shine 

Side  by  side  lay  down  in  the  sun  ;  On  anything  like  to  these  chickens  of 

mine. 

You  may  hunt  the  full  moon  and  the 

stars,  if  you  please, 

But   you   never   will    find    ten   such 

chickens  as  these. 

My  dear,  downy  darlings,  my  sweet 

little  things, 

Come,   nestle   now  cozily   under  my 

wings." 

So  the  hen  said, 
1  heard  her  whispering  soft:  said  she,        And  the  chickens  all  sped 


And  they  went  to  sleep  on  the  hill- 
side warm, 

While  my  little  lammie  lies  here  on 
my  arm. 

I  went  to  the  kitchen,  and  what  did 

I  see 
But  the  old  gray  cat  with  her  kittens 

three ! 


"  My  kittens,  with  tails  so  cunningly    Ag  fagt  ag  they   could  to  their  ^ 


curled 


feather  bed. 


Are  the  prettiest  things  that  can  be    And   there   ]et   them   sleep>  in   thdr 
in  the  world. 
The  bird  on  the  tree. 


And  the  old  ewe  she, 
May  love  their  babies  exceedingly; 
But  I  love  my  kittens  there, 
Under  the  rocking-chair. 
I  love  my  kittens  with  all  my  might, 


feathers  so  warm, 
While  my  little  chick  lies  here  on  my 
arm. 

Mrs.  Carter. 


MARY   HAD  A  LITTLE  LAMB. 


I   love  them  at  morning,  noon,  and    Mary  had  a  little  lamb, 


night. 


Its  fleece  was  white  as  snow 


Now  I'll  take  up  my  kitties,  the  kit-     And  everywhere  that  Mary  went, 


ties  I  love, 
And  we'll  lie  down  together  beneath 

the  warm  stove." 
Let  the  kittens  sleep  under  the  stove 

so  warm, 
While  my  little  darling  lies  here  on 

my  arm. 


The  lamb  was  sure  to  go. 

He  followed  her  to  school  one  day  : 
That  was  against  the  rule ; 

It  made  the  children  laugh  and  play 
To  see  a  lamb  at  school. 


So  the  teacher  turned  him  out, 
But  still  he  lingered  near, 

And  waited  patiently  about 
Till  Mary  did  appear. 


I  went  to  the  yard,  and  I  saw  the  old 
hen 

Go  clucking  about  with  her  chickens 
ten  ; 

She  clucked  and  she  scratched  and  she    Then  he  ran  to  her,  and  laid 
bustled  away,  His  head  upon  her  arm, 

And  what  do  you  think  I  heard  the    As  if  he  said,  "  I'm  not  afraid- 
hen  say?  You'll  keep  me  from  all  harm." 


190 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


"  What  makes  the   lamb   love  Mary 
so  ?" 
The  eager  children  cry. 
"Oh,    Mary    loves     the     lamb,    you 
know," 
The  teacher  did  reply. 

And  you  each  gentle  animal 

In  confidence  may  bind, 
And  make  them  follow  at  your  will, 

If  you  are  only  kind. 


THE  PET  LAMB. 

A    PASTORAL. 

The  dew  was  falling  fast,  the  stars  be- 
gan to  blink  ; 

I  heard  a  voice ;  it  said, "  Drink,  pretty 
Creature,  drink !" 

And  looking  o'er  the  hedge,  before  me 
I  espied 

A  snow-white  mountain  Lamb  with  a 
Maiden  at  its  side. 

No  other  sheep  were  near,  the  Lamb 

was  all  alone, 
And  by  a  slender  cord  was  tethered 

to  a  stone ; 
With  one  knee  on  the  grass  did  the 

little  maiden  kneel, 
While  to  that  mountain   Lamb   she 

gave  its  evening  meal. 


j  'Twas    little   Barbara   Lewthwaite,   a 

Child  of  beauty  rare! 
I  I  watched  them  with  delight,  they  were 
a  lovely  pair. 
Now  with  her  empty  can  the  Maiden 

turned  away : 
But  ere  ten  yards  were  gone  her  foot- 
steps did  she  stay. 

Right  toward  the  Lamb  she  looked  ; 
and  from  a  shady  place 

I  unobserved  could  see  the  workings 
of  her  face ; 

If  Nature  to  her  tongue  could  meas- 
ured numbers  bring, 

Thus,  thought  I,  to  her  Lamb  that  lit- 
tle Maid  might  sing : 

"  What  ails  thee,  Young  One  ?  what  ? 

Why  pull  so  at  thy  cord  ? 
Is  it  not  well  with  thee?  well  both  for 

bed  and  board  ? 
Thy  plot  of  grass  is  soft,  and  green 

as  grass  can  be; 
Rest,  little  Young  One,  rest ;  what  is't 

that  aileth  thee  ? 

"  What  is  it  thou  wouldst  seek  ?  What 
is  wanting  to  thy  heart? 

Thy  limbs  are  they  not  strong?  And 
beautiful  thou  art : 

This  grass  is  tender  grass  ;  these  flow- 
ers they  have  no  peers ; 

And  that  green  corn  all  day  is  rustling 
in  thy  ears ! 


The  Lamb,  while  from  her  hand  he  "  If  the  Sun  be  shining  hot,  do  but 

thus  his  supper  took,  stretch  thy  woollen  chain, 

Seemed  to  feast  with  head  and  ears ;  This  beech  is  standing  by,  its  covert 

and  his  tail  with  pleasure  shook.  thou  canst  gain; 

"  Drink,  pretty  Creature,  drink,"  she  For   rain   and   mountain-storms,   the 

said  in  such  a  tone  like  thou  needest  not  fear — 

That  I  almost  received  her  heart  into  The  rain  and  storm  are  things  that 

my  own.  i          scarcely  can  come  here. 


ANIMALS    AND    BIRDS. 


191 


"  Rest,  little  Young  One,  rest ;   thou 
hast  forgot  the  day 


"  Thou  knowest  that  twice  a  day   I 
hrought  thee  in  this  can 


When  my  father  found  thee  first  in  j  Fresh  water  from  the  brook,  as  clear 

places  far  away  ;  as  ever  ran  ; 

Many  flocks  were  on  the   hills,  but    And  twice  in  the  day,  when  the  ground 

thou  wert  owned  by  none,  is  wet  with  dew, 

And  thy  mother  from  thy  side  for  ev-    I  bring  thee  draughts  of  milk — warm 

ermore  was  gone.  milk  it  is  and  new. 


"  He  took  thee  in  his  arms,  and  in  pity 

brought  thee  home  : 
A  blessed  day  for  thee !  then  whither 

wouldst  thou  roam  ? 
A  faithful  nurse  thou  hast ;  the  dam 

that  did  thee  yean 
Upon  the   mountain-tops   no   kinder 

could  have  been. 


"  Thy  limbs  will  shortly  be  twice  as 

stout  as  they  are  now, 
Then  I'll  yoke  thee  to  my  cart  like  a 

pony  in  the  plough  ; 
My  playmate  thou  shalt  be  ;  and  when 

the  wind  is  cold 
Our  hearth  shall  be  thy  bed,  our  house 

shall  be  thy  fold. 


192 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF    POETRY. 


"  It  will  not,  will  not  rest — poor  Crea- 
ture, can  it  be 

That  'tis  thy  mother's  heart  which  is 
working  so  in  thee  ? 

Things  that  I  know  not  of  belike  to 
thee  are  dear, 

And  dreams  of  things  which  thou 
canst  neither  see  nor  hear. 

"  Alas,  the  mountain-tops  that  look  so 
green  and  fair ! 

I've  heard  of  fearful  winds  and  dark- 
ness that  come  there  ; 

The  little  brooks  that  seem  all  pastime 
and  all  play, 

When  they  are  angry,  roar  like  Lions 
for  their  prey. 

"  Here  thou  needest  not  dread  the 
raven  in  the  sky ; 

Night  and  day  thou  art  safe, — our  cot- 
tage is  hard  by. 

Why  bleat  so  after  me  ?  Why  pull  so 
at  thy  chain  ? 

Sleep — and  at  break  of  day  I  will 
come  to  thee  again  !" 

— As  homeward  through  the  lane  I 
went  with  lazy  feet, 

This  song  to  myself  did  I  oftentimes 
repeat ; 

And  it  seemed,  as  I  retraced  the  bal- 
lad line  by  line, 

That  but  half  of  it  was  hers,  and  one 
half  of  it  was  mine. 

Again,  and  once  again,  did  I  repeat 

the  song ; 
"'  Nay,"  said  I,  "  more  than  half  to  the 

Damsel  must  belong, 
For  she  looked  with  such  a  look,  and 

she  spake  with  such  a  tone, 
That  I  almost  received  her  heart  into 


my  own. 


William  Wordsworth. 


THE   LAMB. 


Little  lamb,  who  made  thee  ? 

Dost  thou  know  who  made  thee, 
Gave  thee  life,  and  made  thee  feed 
By  the  stream  and  o'er  the  mead  ? 
Gave  thee  clothing  of  delight, — 
Softest  clothing,  woolty,  bright  ? 
Gave  thee  such  a  tender  voice, 
Making  all  the  vales  rejoice  ? 

Little  lamb,  who  made  thee  ? 

Dost  thou  know  who  made  thee  ? 


Little  lamb,  I'll  tell  thee  ; 

Little  lamb,  I'll  tell  thee  : 
He  is  called  by  thy  name, 
For  He  calls  himself  a  lamb. 
He  is  meek  and  He  is  mild  ; 
He  became  a  little  child  : 
I  a  child,  and  thou  a  lamb, 
We  are  called  by  His  name. 

Little  lamb,  God  bless  thee  ! 
Little  lamb,  God  bless  thee ! 

William  Blake. 


THE  LITTLE  BOY  AND  THE  SHEEP. 

Lazy  sheep,  pray  tell  me  why 
In  the  pleasant  field  you  lie. 
Eating  grass  and  daisies  white 
From  the  morning  till  the  night : 
Everything  can  something  do, 
But  what  kind  of  use  are  you  ? 


ANIMALS   AND  BIRDS. 


193 


Nay,  my  little  master,  nay, 
Do  not  serve  me  so,  I  pray  ; 
Don't  you  see  the  wool  that  grows 
On  my  back  to  make  your  clothes  ? 
Cold,  ah,  very  cold,  you'd  be 
If  you  had  not  wool  from  me. 

True,  it  seems  a  pleasant  thing 
Nipping  daisies  in  the  spring, 
But  what  chilly  nights  I  pass 
On  the  cold  and  dewy  grass, 
Or  pick  my  scanty  dinner  where 
All  the  ground  is  brown  and  bare  ! 

Then  the  farmer  comes  at  last, 

When  the  merry  spring  is  past, 

Cuts  my  woolly  fleece  away 

For  your  coat  in  wintry  day. 

Little  master,  this  is  why 

In  the  pleasant  fields  I  lie. 

Asm  Taylok. 


THE  DOG  OF  ST.  BERNARD'S. 

One  stormy  night,  upon  the  Alps, 

A  traveller,  weak  and  old, 
Walked   sadly   on    through   ice   and 
snow, 

And  shivered  with  the  cold. 

His  eyes  were  dim  with  weariness, 
His  steps  were  short  and  slow  ; 

At  length  he  laid  him  down  to  sleep 
Upon  a  bed  of  snow. 

Before  he  closed  his  aching  eyes, 
He  heard  a  cheerful  bark  ; 

A  faithful  dog  was  by  his  side 
To  guide  him  through  the  dark. 

And  soon  beside  the  fire  he  stood, 

And  earnestly  he  prayed 
For  those  who  trained  that  noble  dog, 

And  sent  him  to  his  aid. 

13 


THE  DOG  OF  ST.  BERNARD'S. 

They  tell  that  on  St.  Bernard's  mount. 

Where  holy  monks  abide, 
Still  mindful  of  misfortune's  claim, 

Though  dead  to  all  beside, 

The  weary,  wayworn  traveller 
Oft  sinks  beneath  the  snow  ; 

For  where  his  faltering  steps  to  bend 
Xo  track  is  left  to  show. 

'Twas  here,  bewildered  and  alone, 
A  stranger  roamed  at  night ; 

His  heart  was  heavy  as  his  tread, 
His  scrip  alone  was  light. 

Onward    he    pressed,    yet   many    an 
hour 

He  had  not  tasted  food. 
And  many  an  hour  he  had  not  known 

Which  way  his  footsteps  trod ; 

And  if  the  convent's  bell  had  rung 

To  hail  the  pilgrim  near, 
It  still  had  rung  in  vain  for  him — 

He  was  too  far  to  hear ; 

And   should   the   morning  light  dis- 
close 

Its  towers  amid  the  snow, 
To  him  'twould  be  a  mournful  sight — 

He  had  not  strength  to  go. 

Valor  could  arm  no  mortal  man 
That  night  to  meet  the  storm — 

Xo  glow  of  pity  could  have  kept 
A  human  bosom  warm. 

But  obedience  to  a  master's  will 
Had  taught  the  dog  to  roam, 

And  through  the  terrors  of  the  waste 
To  fetch  the  wanderer  home. 


194 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


And  if  it  be  too  much  to  say 
That  pity  gave  him  speed, 

'Tis  sure  he  not  unwillingly 
Performed  the  generous  deed. 


For  now  he  listens,  and  anon 
He  scents  the  distant  breeze, 

And  casts  a  keen  and  anxious  look 
On  every  speck  he  sees. 


And  now,  deceived,  he  darts  along 

As  if  he  trod  the  air — 
Then,  disappointed,  droops  his  head 

With  more  than  human  care. 

He  never  loiters  by  the  way, 
Nor  lays  him  down  to  rest, 

Nor  seeks  a  refuge  from  the  shower 
That  pelts  his  generous  breast. 

And  surely  'tis  not  less  than  joy 
That  makes  it  throb  so  fast 

When  he  sees,  extended  on  the  snow, 
The  wanderer  found  at  last. 

'Tis  surely  he — he  saw  him  move, 

And  at  the  joyful  sight 
He  tossed  his  head  with  a  prouder 
air, 

His  fierce  eye  grew  more  bright ; 


Eager  emotion  swelled  his  breast 

To  tell  his  generous  tale, 
And  he  raised  his  voice  to  its  loudest 
tone 

To  bid  the  wanderer  hail. 

The  pilgrim  heard — he  raised  his  head 
And  beheld  the  shaggy  form  ; 

With  sudden  fear  he  seized  the  gun 
That  rested  on  his  arm. 

"  Ha !  art  thou  come  to  rend  alive 
What  dead  thou  mightst  devour? 

And  dost  thy  savage  fury  grudge 
My  one  remaining  hour?" 

Fear    gave     him     back     his    wasted 
strength  ; 

He  took  his  aim  too  well  : 
The  bullet  bore  the  message  home — 

The  injured  mastiff  fell. 


ANIMALS   AND    BIRDS. 


195 


His  eye  was  dimmed,  his  voice  was 
still, 
And  he  tossed  his  head  no  more ; 
Bat  his  heart,  though  it  ceased  to  throb 
with  joy, 
Was  generous  as  before  ; 

For  round  his  willing  neck  he  bore 

A  store  of  needful  food, 
That   might   support    the    traveller's 
strength 

On  the  yet  remaining  road. 

Enough  of  parting  life  remained 

His  errand  to  fulfil — ■ 
One  painful,  dying  effort  more 

Might  save  the  murderer  still ; 

So  he  heeded  not  his  aching  wound, 
But  crawled  to  the  traveller's  side, 

Marked  with  a  look  the  way  he  came, 
Then  shuddered,  groaned,  and  died ! 


BETH-GELERT;   OR,  THE  GRAVE  OF 
THE  GREYHOUND. 

The  spearmen  heard  the  bugle  sound, 
And  cheerily  smiled  the  morn, 

And  many  a  brach  and  many  a  hound 
Obeyed  Llewelyn's  horn. 

And  still  he  blew  a  louder  blast, 

And  gave  a  lustier  cheer : 
"  Come,  Gelert,  come ;   wert  never  last 

Llewelyn's  horn  to  hear. 

"  Oh !  where  does  faithful  Gelert  roam, 
The  flower  of  all  his  race? 

So  true,  so  brave ;  a  lamb  at  home, 
A  lion  in  the  chase  !" 

'Twas  only  at  Llewelyn's  board 
The  faithful  Gelert  fed  ; 


He  watched,  he  served,  he  cheered  his 
lord 
And  sentinelled  his  bed. 

In  sooth,  he  was  a  peerless  hound, 

The  gift  of  royal  John  ; 
But  now  no  Gelert  could  be  found, 

And  all  the  chase  rode  on. 

And  now,  as  o'er  the  rocks  and  delis 

The  gallant  chidings  rise, 
"All  Snowdon's  craggy  chaos  yells 

The  many-mingled  cries  ! 

That  day  Llewelyn  little  loved 
The  chase  of  Hart  or  Hare, 

And  scant  and  small  the  booty  proved. 
For  Gelert  was  not  there. 

Unpleased,  Llewelyn  homeward  hied : 
When  near  the  portal  seat, 

His  truant  Gelert  he  espied 
Bounding  his  lord  to  greet. 

But  when  he  gained  his  castle-door, 
Aghast  the  chieftain  stood : 

The  hound  all  o'er  was  smeared  with 
gore. 
His  lips,  his  fangs,  ran  blood. 

Llewelyn  gazed  with  fierce  surprise : 
Unused  such  looks  to  meet, 

His  favorite  checked  his  joyful  guise. 
And  crouched  and  licked  his  feet. 

Onward  in  haste  Llewelyn  passed, 

And  on  went  Gelert  too, 
And  still,  where'er  his  eyes  he  cast, 

Fresh  blood-gouts  shocked  his  view. 

O'erturned  his  infant's  bed  he  found. 
With  blood-stained  covert  rent, 

And  all  around  the  walls  and  ground 
With  recent  blood  besprent. 


196 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


He  called  his  child,  no  voice  replied ;   ;  And  now  a  gallant  tomb  they  raise, 
He  searched  with  terror  wild ;  With  costly  sculpture  deckt ; 

Blood,  blood,  he  found  on  every  side ;    And  marbles,  storied  with  his  praise, 
But  nowhere  found  his  child.  Poor  Gelert's  bones  protect. 


''  Hell-hound !  my  child  by  thee's  de- 
voured !" 

The  frantic  father  cried  ; 
And  to  the  hilt  his  vengeful  sword 

He  plunged  in  Gelert's  side. 

His  suppliant  looks  as  prone  he  fell  < 

No  pity  could  impart, 
But  still  his  Gelert's  dying  yell 

Passed  heavy  o'er  his  heart. 

Aroused  by  Gelert's  dying  yell, 
Some  slumberer  wakened  nigh  : 

What  words  the  parent's   joy  could 
tell 
To  hear  his  infant's  cry  ! 

Concealed  beneath  a  tumbled  heap 
His  hurried  search  had  missed, 

All  glowing  from  his  rosy  sleep, 
The  cherub  boy  he  kissed. 

Nor   scath    had    he,   nor   harm,   nor 
dread ; 

But  the  same  couch  beneath 
Lay  a  gaunt  wolf,  all  torn  and  dead, 

Tremendous  still  in  death. 

Ah,  what  was  then  Llewelyn's  pain ! 

For  now  the  truth  was  clear ; 
His    gallant    hound    the    wolf    had 
slain, 

To  save  Llewelyn's  heir. 

Vain,  vain  was  all  Llewelyn's  woe : 

"  Best  of  thy  kind,  adieu ! 
The    frantic    blow   which    laid    thee 
low 

This  heart  shall  ever  rue." 


There  never  could  the  spearman  pass, 

Or  forester,  unmoved ; 
There  oft  the  tear-besprinkled  grass 

Llewelyn's  sorrow  proved. 

And  there  he   hung   his  sword   and 
spear, 

And  there,  as  evening  fell, 
In  Fancy's  ear  he  oft  would  hear 

Poor  Gelert's  dying  yell. 

And  till  great  Snowdon's  rocks  grow 
old, 

And  cease  the  storm  to  brave, 
The  consecrated  spot  shall  hold 

The  name  of  "  Gelert's  Grave." 

William  Robert  Spencer 


THE  SHEPHERD'S  DOG. 

No  dandy  dog  poor  Rover  was, 

So  sleek  and  fair  to  see ; 
No  ears  of  beauty  graced  his  head, 

No  dainty  limbs  had  he  ; 
No  pretty  tail  he  had  to  wag 

When  master  came  in  sight ; 
No  glossy  silken  curls  adorned 

His  coat  of  black  and  white. 

But  Rover  was  a  gentle  dog, 

A  faithful  dog  and  true ; 
The  little  children  loved  him  well, 

He  loved  the  children,  too; 
He  licked  their  little  hands  so  soft, 

He  trotted  at  their  heels, 
He  played  with  them  upon  the  grass. 

And  helped  them  at  their  meals. 


ANIMALS   AMD    BIRDS. 


197 


When  Rover  was  a  tiny  pup, 

And  scarce  could  run  about, 
His  master  found  him  in  a  ditch 

One  day,  and  brought  him  out ; 
And  little  thought  the  good  lad  then, 

As,  pleased,  he  turned  away. 
In  saving  Rover's  humble  life 

He  saved  his  own  that  day. 

And  tenderly  he  bore  him  home, 

And  nursed  him  well  and  long, 
And  day  by  day,  and  week  by  week, 

The  dog  grew  big  and  strong ; 
And  late  or  soon,  in  house  or  field, 

The  two  were  ne'er  apart ; 
The  neighbors  said  the  lad  had  tied 

The  dog  up  to  his  heart. 

And  Rover — well  he  loved  to  lie 

With  Colin  'neath  the  trees, 
And  lay  his  great  and  shaggy  head 

Upon  his  master's  knees ; 
And  had  he  had  the  power  to  speak. 

The  power  to  shed  a  tear, 
I  think  he  would  have  wept  and  said, 

"  I  love  you,  master  dear." 


And  cunning  tricks  lie  knew  as  well : 

He  feigned  a  broken  leg  ; 
He  tumbled  down  as  he  were  shot. 

And  then  stood  up  to  beg ; 
He  chased  the  butterflies  about, 

He  barked  at  bird  and  bee, 
And    sniffed    the    flowers    as    if    he 
loved 

The  pretty  things  to  see. 

No  shepherd's  dog  the  country  round 

Could  better  watch  the  sheep  : 
His    bright   black    eyes   were   every- 
where— 

He  never  seemed  to  sleep ; 
And   when   the   flock  went  once  as- 
tray, 

He  soon  was  on  its  track, 
And  ere  the  sun  had  gone  to  rest 

He  brought  the  wanderers  back. 

He   watched    them    thro'   the    silent 
night, 

For  he  was  brave  and  bold ; 
And  once  he  killed  a  hungry  wolf 

He  caught  beside  the  fold. 


198 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


But  better  still  I  love  to  hear 

The  story  that  they  tell 
Of  what,  upon  a  stormy  night, 

His  master  dear  befell. 

The  snow  was  falling  fast  and  thick — 

So  thick  you  scarce  could  see — 
And  Colin's  mother  lay  abed, 

As  ill  as  she  could  be ; 
So  Colin  must  to  town  away, 

And  fetch  the  doctor  straight ; 
No  matter  though  the  wind  may  blow, 

The  night  be  dark  and  late. 

He  kissed  his  mother's  cheek  so  pale, 

Then  turned  in  haste  to  go ; 
His  faithful  dog  was  at  his  side, 

And  leapt  out  on  the  snow. 
Fierce  blew  the  wind  across  the  heath 

As  Colin  shut  the  door, 
But  bravely  turned  he  to  the  blast, 

And  Rover  went  before. 

No  moon  shed  down  her  gentle  light 

To  guide  them  on  their  way  ; 
They  could  not  tell  the  road  that  night 

They  knew  so  well  by  day. 
And    weary    miles     they     struggled 
through, 

And  sore  was  Colin's  heart, 
To  think  his  mother  lay  abed, 

And  he  so  far  apart. 

"  Good  dog  !  good  dog  !"  at  length  he 
said, 
"  God  keep  us  both  from  ill ! 
Though  wild  the  night,  we'll  take  the 
path 
That  lies  across  the  hill." 
They   clambered    up   the  steep   hill- 
side, 
They  left  the  vale  below, 
But  louder  howled  the  storm  above, 
And  faster  fell  the  snow. 


The  blood  froze  in  poor  Colin's  veins. 

The  tear  froze  in  his  eye  ; 
He  scarce  could  breathe,  so  cold  he 
was — 

He  felt  as  he  would  die. 
His  heart  beat  faint  and  fainter  still, 

His  head  swam  round  and  round  ; 
He  reeled,  and  with  a  cry  of  pain 

Sank  helpless  to  the  ground. 

And  Rover  licked  his  icy  face, 

And  licked  his  frozen  hand  ; 
Why  master  lay  so  cold  and  still 

He  could  not  understand. 
But  soon  a  thought,  a  happy  thought. 

Lit  up  his  lowly  mind  ; 
He  shook  the  snow  from  off  his  back. 

And  sped  off  like  the  wind. 

A  shepherd  dwelt  upon  the  hill — 

A  goodly  man,  tho'  poor — 
And  he  that  night  was  roused  from 
sleep 

By  something  at  his  door. 
He  looked  from  out  his  window  high. 

And  something  black  he  saw 
That  stood  beside  his  cottage-door, 

And  scraped  it  with  its  paw. 

With  speedy  step  the  old  man  came, 

The  door  he  opened  Avide, 
And,  panting  in  the  howling  storm, 

Poor  Rover  he  espied. 
"Come  in,  good    dog,  come   in,"  he 
said, 

"  And  tell  me  why  you  grieve." 
Poor  Rover  looked  up  in  his  face, 

And  pulled  him  by  the  sleeve. 

The  shepherd  took  his  staff  in  hand. 

And  Rover  led  the  way, 
And  up  the  giddy  heights  they  went 

To  where  young  Colin  lay. 


ANIMALS   AND    BIRDS. 


199 


They  found  him  lying  stiff  and  cold;      And  Colin  soon  had  cause  to  bless 

The  good  man  raised  his  head.  The  good  man  for  his  care. 

He  breathed,  he  murmured   Rover's    And  Rover  now  is  old  and  gray, 


name ; 
Thank  God,  he  was  not  dead  ! 

The  shepherd  bore  him  to  his  cot, 
And  well  he  nursed  him  there; 


But  Colin  loves  him  still, 
And     ne'er     forgets     the     night     he 
saved 
His  life  upon  the  hill. 


Matthias  Bark. 


DEAR  OLD  FLO. 

A     LITTLE     GIRL'S     LECTURE     TO     HER 
DOG. 

Stand  up  and  listen  like  a  dear  old 
Flo! 


You're  but  a  baby   in  your    second 

year  — 
By  old  I  only  mean  the  same  as  dear  I 

"  You  dear  old  Flo  !" 
Means  just  as  if  I  said,  "  You  dear,  dear 

Flo !" 


Not  that  you  really  are  so    old,  you  ;  But  that  sounds  rather  silly  said  to 
know, —  you. 


200 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


Then,  as  one  "  dear"  won't  do, 
Because  I  love  you  so, 
I  call  you  old  as  well !     It's  just  the 
same ! 

For  pa  last  night 
Read    from    a   funny   book    by   Mr. 

Spear — 
(He  reads  to  ma,  who  thinks  it  such  a 
treat) — 

"  What's  in  a  name  ? 
A  rose  by  any  name  would  smell  as 
sweet." 

You  dear  old  Flo  ! 
I'm  sure  you  smell  as  sweet  as  any 
rose ! 

I  think  so,  if  Nurse  don't ! 
And  Nurse  don't  think  so  just  because  J  Loving,     obedient,    trustful  —  such    a 

she  won't.  dear ! 

Puss  is  her  dear  old  darling;  and  she    Pa  says  you  are   a  dog  "without   a 


And    if   you    knew,   you    know   you 

couldn't  tell. 
However,   never    mind,    it's    all    the 

same ! 
To  quarrel  must  be  bad  by  any  name. 

So  listen,  Flo ! 
Don't  ever  fight  with  pussy  ;   let  her 

spit, 

And  don't  you  care  one  bit! 
She  knows  no  better,  for  she's  but  a 

cat, 

As  stupid  as  she's  fat, — 
Fat  as  our  pony  when   he's  had  his 

beans ; 
And   you're   my  noble   doggy,  brave 

and  strong, 


knows, 
Because  your  temper  (like  her  own) 
is  hasty, 
That  }tou  and  pussy  sometimes  come 

to  blows — • 
Not  blows   exactly ;    but  it's    all   the 

same ! 
Again  I  tell   you,    Flo,  what's   in   a 
name  ? 
Medicine  by  any  name  would  smell 
as  nasty ! 
For  it  is  nasty  that  you  won't  agree, 
Pussy   and   you !      You're    like    the 
"  busy  bee  " 

In  Nurse's  'song, 
That "  loves  to  bark  and  bite  "— 
Oh  no  !  that's  wrong,  I'm  sure  ;  dear  ! 
dear !  let's  see, 

Whatever  can  it  be  ? 
It's   Tommy's  fault ;  he  always  says  it 

wrong ; 
And  now,  you  see,  he's  put  me  out  as 
well. 

Tut !     I  cant  get  it  right ; 


peer. 

I  don't  know  what  that  means, 
But    pa    is    always   right,   whoever's 

wrong ! 
Then  it's  no  wonder  that  I  love  you 
so, 

You  dear  old  Flo  ! 

S.  J.  Stoxe. 


THE  TWO  FRIENDS. 

My  dog  and  I  are  faithful  friends  ; 

We  read  and  play  together ; 
We  tramp  across  the  hills  and  fields, 

When  it  is  pleasant  weather. 

And  when  from  school  with  eager  haste 

I  come  along  the  street, 
He  hurries  on  with  bounding  step, 

My  glad  return  to  greet. 

Then  how  he  frisks  along  the  road, 
And  jumps  up  in  my  face ! 

And  if  I  let  him  steal  a  kiss, 
I'm  sure  it's  no  disgrace. 


ANIMALS   AjYD    BIRDS. 


201 


Oh,  had  he  but  the  gift  of  speech 

But  for  a  single  day. 
How  dearly  should  I  love  to  hear 

The  funny  things  he'd  say  ! 


Yet,  though  he  cannot  say  a  word 

As  human  beings  can, 
He  knows  and  thinks  as  much  as  I, 

Or  any  other  man. 


And  what  he  knows,  and  thinks,  and    Come  here,  good  fellow,  while  I  read 
feels  What  other  dogs  can  do  ; 

Is  written  in  his  eye ;  '  And  if  I  live  when  you  have  gone. 

My  faithful  dog  cannot  deceive,  I'll  write  your  history  too. 

And  never  told  a  lie.  St5SAH  Jewett. 


202 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY 


SIR  PONTO'S  PARTY. 

There  once  lived  in  Dogclom  a  dog 

of  great  worth — 
Sir   Ponto,  distinguished   for  fashion 

and  birth  ; 
His   lady,  for  virtue  and   beauty   as 

famed ; 
And  three  puppy  sons — Carlo,  Snap, 

and  Dash  named. 

It  being  the  season  for  parties  and  balls, 
For  exchanging  of  visits  and  making 

of  calls, 
Sir  Ponto  resolved,  with  his  fair  lady's  ;  While  his  lady  declared  how  delighted 


On  the  long-wished-for  day,  exactly  at 
five, 

The  guests  in  their  coaches  began  to 
arrive ; 

And  were  ushered  up  stairs  by  wait- 
ing-men monkeys, 

Dressed  out  in  a  style  that  became 
lordly  flunkies. 

Sir   Ponto   received   them   with   true 

courtly  grace, 
With  bows  and  with  greetings,  and 

smiles  on  his  face ; 


leave, 
Next  week  at  his  mansion  his  friends 
to  receive. 


she  was 

To  see  her  dear  friends  and  to  shake 
their  dear  paws. 


So  young  Master  Dash  was  directed  to    For  a  while  they  engaged  in  agreeable 


write, 


chat, 


And  his  friends  to  a  dinner  next  week    ^T°w  talking  of  this,  and  now  talking 


to  invite 


of  that. 


But  the  ladies  expressly  to  tell,  one    Till  the  butler  appeared  in  a  full  suit 


and  all. 


of  red, 


That  the  party  would  close  with  an    And  said,  with  a  bow,  that  the  table 


elegant  ball. 


was  spread. 


The  excitement  the  news   caused  in  '  Of  the  various  dishes  composing  the 


Dogdom  was  great ; 


treat — 


Both  old  dogs  and  young  dogs  pre-    Of  the  roast  and  the  boiled,  of  the 


pared  for  the  fete, 


fish,  fowl,  and  meat ; 


Each  fully  determined  to  use  all  his    Of  the  wines   and  the  fruits,  of  the 


might, 


puddings  and  pie's- 


His  very  best  leg  to  put  foremost  that    Sir  Ponto  had  ordered  abundant  sup 


night.  ' 

Such  a  brushing  of  coats  and  a  trim- 
ming of  caps 


plies. 

But,  alas!    disappointments   our  best 
schemes  await, 


In  all  former  dog-days  ne'er  took  place,     Nor  are  dogs,  more  than  mortals,  ex- 


perhaps  ; 


empted  by  fate; 


Shawls,  laces,  and  robes  were  examined    While  we're   looking  for  joy,  sorrow 


with  care, 


enters  the  door. 


And  ornaments  purchased  to  deck  off     And  dangers  attend  us  behind  and  be- 


their  hair. 


fore. 


ANIMALS   AMD    BIRDS. 


203 


While  Beau  Pincher  was   handing  a  !  Miss  Pussy  then  jumped  up,  and  with 

slice  of  rat-pie  her  sharp  claws 

To    Miss    Flora,   whose    beauty  had  Inflicted   some  scratches  on  both  of 

fixed  every  eye,  his  jaws ; 

A  monkey,  in  handing  a  dish  of  hot  While  the  bull-dog  displayed  his  great, 

soup,  terrible  teeth, 

Spilled  it  over  her  paw  and  her  silk-  As  if  at  one  mouthful  he  meant  him 

covered  hoop  !  to  eat. 

The  guests,  in  confusion,  now  each  one  Thus  surrounded,  poor  Pug,  in  frantic 

arose —  despair, 

Some  examined  her  paw,  some  exam-  With  a  shriek,  leaped  high  o'er  their 

ined  her  clothes ;  heads  in  the  air, 

Some  plied    their   smell-bottles,  and  Nor  looking  behind  him,  made  straight 

some  plied  their  fan,  for  the  door, 

While  the  monkeys  in  terror  around  Bare-headed    rushed    out,    and    was 

the  room  ran.  never  seen  more  ! 

"  You  wretch  of  a  monkey  !"  the  an-  Mr.  Pincher,  the  beau,  now  the  ladies 

gry  host  said,  entreated 

"  You  richly  deserve  I  should  break  To  forget  their  alarm,  and  again  to  be 

your  big  head  !  seated, 

Be  off  with  you  quick,  you  villainous  While  each  gentleman  dog  did  his  best 


scamp 


to  restore 


Or  I'll   flatten   your   nose   with   this    The  enjoyment  and  mirth  which  ex 


kerosene  lamp  !- 


isted  before. 


"  Miss    Flora,   my    dear,    I'm    really  \  The  laugh  and  the  jest  now  flew  mer- 

ashamed —  rily  round — 

That  chuckle-head  monkey's  alone  to    A   happier   party   could    scarcely   be 

be  blamed  ;  found  ; 

I  hope  that  your  sweet  paw  don't  feel  ,  And  soon  to  the  ballroom  they  eagerly 

any  pain  :  went, 

Your   dress  we'll   have   scoured   and  ,  On  waltzing  and  polking  each  mind 

lustred  again."  fully  bent. 

On  Miss  Flora's  left  side  sat  a  long-  On  high,  in  a  gallery,  in  white  ermine 

nosed  greyhound,  suits, 

Who,  sharing  the  scalding,  leaped  up  Four  musical   cats   sat,  with  fiddles 

with  a  bound,  and  flutes ; 

And  seizing  poor  Pug  by  the  calf  of  While  the  leader  in  front,  with  a  wave 

his  leg,  of  his  paw, 

Made  him  howl  and  for  mercy  most  To  the  mewsic  and  dancing  gave  order 

lustily  beg.  I  and  law. 


204 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


The  mewsic  struck  up,  and  each  dog 

took  his  place 
In  the  right  merry  dance  with  a  right 

merry  face ; 
They  waltzed  and  they  rjolkecl,till  the 

low,  drooping  tail 
Plainly  showed  that  their  strength  was 

beginning  to  fail. 

Each  dog  then  his  partner  led  back  to 
her  seat, 

And  hastened  to  bring  her  an  ice- 
cream to  eat ; 

While  he  gallantly  stood  by,  and  said, 
with  a  bow, 

That  a  happier  dog  never  lived,  he 
would  wow. 

Then,  in  cloaks  and  in  shawls  muffled 

up  to  the  chin, 
To   their   coaches,  long   waiting,   the 

ladies  got  in, 
And,  chatting,    drove   off  with   their 

beaux  by  their  side, 
To  protect  them  from  harm  as  they 

homeward  did  ride. 

FINALE. 

Old  Towser,  as  it  now  was  late, 

Shut  up  the  house   and   locked   the 

gate ; 
Then  stretched  himself  upon  the  floor, 
And  loudly  soon  began  to  snore. 

Professor  Bruns. 


A  NIGHT  WITH  A  WOLF. 

Little  one,  come  to  my  knee ! 

Hark  how  the  rain  is  pouring 
Over  the  roof,  in  the  pitch-black  night, 

And  the  wind  in  the  woods  a-roar- 
ing ! 

Hush,  my  darling,  and  listen, 

Then  pay  for  the  story  with  kisses : 


Father   was    lost   in   the   pitch-black 
night 
In  just  such  a  storm  as  this  is  ! 

High  up  on  the  lonely  mountains, 
Where  the  wild  men  watched  and 
waited, 
Wolves  in  the  forest,  and  bears  in  the 
bush, 
And  I  on  my  path  belated. 

The  rain  and  the  night  together 
Came   down,  and   the   wind   came 
after, 
Bending   the   props  of   the  pine-tree 
roof, 
And  snapping  many  a  rafter. 

I  crept  along  in  the  darkness, 

Stunned,  and  bruised,  and  blinded — 

Crept  to  a  fir  with  thickset  boughs, 
And  a  sheltering  rock  behind  it. 

There,  from  the  blowing  and  raining, 
Crouching,  I  sought  to  hide  me ; 

Something    rustled,   two    green   eyes 
shone, 
And  a  wolf  lay  down  beside  me. 

Little  one,  be  not  frightened  : 

I  and  the  wolf  together, 
Side  by  side,  through  the  long,  long 
night, 

Hid  from  the  awful  weather. 

His  wet  fur  pressed  against  me, 
Each  of  us  warmed  the  other  ; 

Each  of  us  felt,  in  the  stormy  dark, 
That  beast  and  man  was  brother. 

And  when  the  falling  forest 
No  longer  crashed  in  warning, 

Each   of   us   went  from    our   hiding- 
place 
Forth  in  the  wild,  wet  morning. 


ANIMALS   AND    BIRDS. 


205 


Darling,  kiss  me  in  payment !  Father's  house  is  a  better  place 

Hark  !  how  the  wind  is  roaring!  When  the  stormy  rain  is  pouring. 


Bayard  Taylor. 


*\ 


Cowper's  Hares- 

EPITAPH  ON  A  HARE. 


Here   lies    whom    hound    did    ne'er 
pursue, 
Nor  swifter  greyhound  follow, 
Whose    foot   ne'er    tainted    morning 
dew, 
Nor  ear  heard  huntsman's  hallo  ! 

Old  Tiney,  surliest  of  his  kind, 
Who,  nursed  with  tender  care, 

And  to  domestic  bounds  confined, 
Was  still  a  wild  Jack-hare. 

Though  duly  from  my  hand  he  took 

His  pittance  every  night, 
He  did  it  with  a  jealous  look, 

And,  when  he  could,  would  bite. 

His  diet  was  of  wheaten  bread 
And  milk,  and  oats,  and  straw  ; 

Thistles,  or  lettuces  instead, 
With  sand  to  scour  his  maw. 

On  twigs  of  hawthorn  he  regaled, 
On  pippins'  russet  peel, 


And  when  his  juicy  salads  failed, 
Sliced  carrot  pleased  him  well. 

A  Turkey  carpet  was  his  lawn, 
Whereon  he  loved  to  bound, 

To  skip  and  gambol  like  a  fawn, 
And  swing  his  rump  around. 

His  frisking  was  at  evening  hours. 

For  then  he  lost  his  fear, 
But  most  before  approaching  showTers, 

Or  when  a  storm  drew  near. 

Eight  years   and   five   round   rolling 
moons 

He  thus  saw  steal  away. 
Dozing  out  all  his  idle  noons, 

And  every  night  at  play. 

I  kept  him  for  his  humor's  sake, 

For  he  would  oft  beguile 
My  heart  of  thoughts  that  made   it 
ache, 

And  force  me  to  a  smile. 


206 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


But  now,  beneath  this  walnut  shade, 
He  finds  his  long  last  home, 

And  waits,  in  snug  concealment  laid, 
Till  gentler  Puss  shall  come, 


He,  still  more  aged,  feels  the  shocks 
From  which  no  care  can  save, 

And,  partner  once  of  Tiney's  box. 
Must  soon  partake  his  grave. 


William  Cowpee. 


THE  LITTLE  HARE. 
Beyond  the  palings  of  the  park 

A  hare  had  made  her  form, 
Beneath  a  drooping  fern,  that  gave 

A  shelter  snug  and  warm. 

She  slept  until  the  daylight  came, 
And  all  things  were  awake, 

And  then  the  hare,  with  noiseless  step,  j 
Crept  softly  from  the  brake. 

She   stroked   her  whiskers   with   her 
paws. 

Looked  timidly  around 
With  open  eyes,  and  ears  erect 

That  caught  the  smallest  sound. 

The  field-mouse  rustled  in  the  grass, 
The  squirrel  in  the  trees, 


But  Puss  was  not  at  all  afraid 
Of  common  sounds  like  these. 

She  frisked  and  gambolled  with  de- 
light, 

And  cropped  a  leaf  or  two 
Of  clover,  and  of  tender  grass, 

That  glistened  in  the  dew. 

What   was    it,   then,   that   made   her 
start, 

And  run  away  so  fast  ? 
She  heard  the  distant  sound  of  hounds, 

She  heard  the  huntsman's  blast. 

Hoy  !— tally-ho  !— hoy  !— tally-ho  ! 

The  hounds  are  in  full  cry  ; 
Ehew  !  ehew  ! — in  scarlet  coats 

The  men  are  sweeping  by. 


ANIMALS   AjYD    BIRDS. 


207 


^AtmMl 


/SK°-l<ton.-'Wriliwn 


So  off  she   set  with  a  spring  and    a     Faster  than   hunter  and   faster  than 


bound, 
Over  the  meadows  and  open  ground, 


hound, 
And  on  and  on,  till  she  lost  the  sound, 
And  away  went  the  little  hare. 


Aunt  Effie's  Rhyme-; 


THE  SQUIRREL.  I  And  then  he  flies  much  more  alert 

Oh,  there's  the  squirrel  perched  aloft,  ■      Than  butterfly  or  bee; 


That  active  little  rover ; 
See  how  he  whisks  his  bushy  tail, 
Which  shadows  him  all  over. 

Now  view  him  seated  on  the  bough 

To  crack  his  nuts  at  ease, 
While  blackbirds  sing,  and  stock-doves 
coo. 

Amid  the  neighboring  trees. 

With  cunning  glance  he  casts  around 

His  merry  sparkling  eye  ; 
In  yonder  hazel  by  the  brook, 

Rich  clusters  he  can  spy. 


No  lamb  or  kid  is  half  so  light. 
So  swift  of  foot,  as  he. 


THE  SQUIRREL. 

The  pretty  red  squirrel  lives  up  in  a 
tree, 

A  little  blithe  creature  as  ever  can  be  ; 

He  dwells  in  the  boughs  where  the 
stock-dove  broods, 

Far  in  the  shades  of  the  green  sum- 
mer woods; 


208 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


His  food  is  the  young,  juicy  cones  of 

the  pine, 
And  the  milky  beech-nut  is  his  bread 

and  his  wine. 

In  the  joy  of  his  nature  he  frisks  with 

a  bound 
To  the  topmost  twigs,  and  then  down 

to  the  ground  ; 
Then  up  again  like  a  winged  thing, 
And  from  tree  to  tree  with  a  vaulting 

spring ; 
Then  he  sits  up  aloft,  and  looks  waggish 

and  queer, 
As  if  he  would  say,  "  Ay,  follow  me 

here." 


THE  SQUIRREL. 

"  The  squirrel  is  happy,  the  squirrel 
is  gay," 
Little  Harry  exclaimed  to  his  broth- 
er; 
"  He  has  nothing  to  do  or  to  think  of 
but  play, 
And  to  jump  from  one  bough  to  an- 
other." 


But  William  was  older  and  wiser,  and 

knew 
That  all  play  and  no  work  wouldn't 

answer, 
So  he  asked  what  the  squirrel  in  win- 


And  then  he  grows  pettish,  and  stamps  ter  must  do, 


his  foot ; 

And  then  independently  cracks  his 
nut. 

And  thus  he  lives  the  long  summer 
thorough, 

Without  a  care  or  a  thought  of  sor- 
row. 

But  small  as  he  is,  he  knows  he  may 
want 


If  he  spent  all  the  summer  a  dan- 
cer. 

The  squirrel,  dear  Harry,  is  merry  and 
wise, 
For  true  wisdom  and  mirth  go  to- 
gether ; 

He  lays  up  in  summer  his  winter  sup- 
plies, 


In  the  bleak  winter  weather  when  food        And  then  he  Ao^  mind  the  cold 

is  scant:  '^miIk-v. 

So  he  finds  a  hole  in  an  old  tree's  core, 
And  there  makes  his  nest  and  lays  up 

his  store ; 
Then  when  cold  winter  comes,  and 

the  trees  are  bare, 
When  the  white  snow  is  falling,  and 

keen  is  the  air, 
He  heeds  it  not,  as  he  sits  by  himself 
In  his  warm  little  nest  with  his  nuts 

on  his  shelf. 


Bernard  Barton. 


THE  SQUIRREL. 

"  Little  brown  squirrel,  pray  what  do 

you  eat? 
What  had  you  for  dinner  to-day  ?" 
"  Nuts,  beautiful  nuts,  So  nice  and  so 

sweet : 
I  gather  them  off  the  tall  trees  in  the 


Oh  wise  little  squirrel !  no  wonder  that  :   .     ,  11,-11          1    T  ^    i  ±t    i 

^  I  And  eat  all  the  kernels  I  find  that  art 

he, 

In   the   green   summer   woods,  is   as  j       .  &"v  ,,  >       1       ,      . 

, ,.   °  .     ,  '  And   then   throw   the   hard    shells 

blithe  as  can  be ! 

Mary  Howitt. 


wood, 
L  eat  al 
good, 
nd  th 
away. 


ANIMALS   AND    BIRDS. 


209 


.     ,/tlfc;'', 


••  Little  brown  squirrel,  but  what  do 
you  do 
When  the  season  for  nuts  is  o'er  ?" 

4i  I  gather  ripe  nuts  all  the  long  sum- 
mer through, 

And  hide  them  so  deep  in  a  hole  in  the 
ground ; 

Then  when  the  dark  winter  again  has 
come  round 
I  have  plenty  still  laid  up  in  store." 

Dear  little  reader,  I  wonder  if  you 
Are  laying  in  food  for  your  mind  ? 

You  should  seek  what  is  good  and  in- 
structive and  true, 

You  should  gain  all  the  knowledge 
that  ought  to  be  known, 

Tl  Kit  'when  the  bright  days  of  your 
childhood  are  flown 
You  may  be  of  some  use  to  man- 
kind. 

KITTY  IN  THE  BASKET. 

"  Where  is  my  little  basket  gone  ?" 
Said  Charlie  boy  one  day  ; 

14 


'"  I  guess  some  little  boy  or  girl 
Has  taken  it  away. 

"  And  Kitty  too,  I  can't  find  her ; 

Oh  dear !  what  shall  I  do  ? 
I  wish  I  could  my  basket  find. 

And  little  Kitty  too. 

"  I'll  go  to  mother's  room  and  look  ; 

Perhaps  she  may  be  there, 
For  Kitty  loves  to  take  a  nap 

In  mother's  easy  chair. 

"  Oh,   mother !    mother !     come    and 
look! 

See  what  a  little  heap  ! 
My  Kitty's  in  the  basket  here. 

All  cuddled  down  to  sleep." 

He  took  the  basket  carefully, 
And  brought  it  in  a  minute, 

And  showed  it  to  his  mother  dear. 
With  little  Kitty  in  it, 

Eliza  Follen. 


210 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


Mischief-loving  Robbie, 

Having  naught  to  do, 
Climbed  up  to  the  window, 

Back  the  sash  he  threw. 
There  he  saw  Miss  Kitty 

Down  upon  the  walk  ; 
Lazy  little  Robbie 

To  her  began  to  talk ; 
Cunning  little  kitty, 

Tell  me  how  you  do," 
But  the  kitty  would  not 

Even  answer  "  Mew." 
Roguish  little  Robbie 

Likes  this  not  at  all ; 
Then  he  spies  his  grandma's 

Knitting,  and  her  ball 
Of  soft,  warm  crimson  worsted. 

"  I'll  throw  her  that,"  said  he. 
Robbie  and  the  kitty 

Played  right  merrily  ; 
But  oh  in  such  a  tangle 

They  rolled  it  in  their  play, 
To  take  out  all  the  knots  it  took 

Poor  grandma  half  a  day. 


ANIMALS   AJVD    BIRDS. 


211 


I  LIKE  LITTLE  PUSSY. 

I  like  little  Pussy, 

Her  coat  is  so  warm  ; 
And  if  I  don't  hurt  her 

She'll  do  me  no  harm. 
So  I'll  not  pull  her  tail. 

Nor  drive  her  away, 
But  Pussy  and  I 

Very  gently  will  play  ; 
She  shall  sit  by  my  side, 

And  I'll  give  her  some  food: 
And  she'll  love  me  because 

I  am  gentle  and  good. 

I'll  pat  little  Pussy, 

And  then  she  will  purr. 

And  thus  show  her  thanks 
For  mv  kindness  to  her: 


I'll  not  pinch  her  ears, 

Nor  tread  on  her  paw, 
Lest  I  should  provoke  her 

To  use  her  sharp  claw ; 
I  never  will  vex  her, 

Nor  make  her  displeased, 
For  Pussy  don't  like 

To  be  worried  or  teased. 

Jane  Taylor. 


PUSSY'S  HIDING-PLACE. 

Oh,  where  is  my  kitten,  my  little  gray 

kitten  ? 

I've  hunted  the  house  all  around ; 

I've  looked  in  the  cradle  and  under 

the  table, 

But  nowhere  can  Kitty  be  found. 


212 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


i      J 


I've  hunted  the  clover  and  flower-beds 
over ; 
I  peeped  in  the  old  wooden  spout ; 
I  went  to  the  wood-pile,  and  stayed 
there  a  good  while, 
But  never  my  Kitty  came  out. 

I've  been  in  the  attic   and    made   a 
great  racket ; 
I  peeped  into  little  Dick's  bed  ; 
I've  looked  in  the  stable  as  much  as 
I  'm  able ; 
I  hunted  the  wood-house  and  shed. 


I  called  little  Rover  to  hunt  the  field     i 
over, 
And  help  find  my  Kitty  for  me  ; 
IS'o    dog    could    be    kinder,   but    he 
couldn't  find  her — 
Oh,  where  can  my  poor  Kitty  be? 

I  saw  a   boy  trundle  away  a   small 

bundle, 

And  drop  it  down  into  the  brook. 

Could  that  be  my  Kitty,  so  cunning 

and  pretty  ? 

I  think  I  will  run  there  and  look  ; 


She  sips  it  all  up 

With  her  little  lap  dap  ; 
Then,  wiping  her  whiskers, 

Lies  clown  for  a  nap. 


My  kittie  is  gentle, 

She  loves  me  right  well ; 
And  how  funny  her  play  is 

I'm  sure  I  can't  tell. 


MY  KITTENS. 

A   LITTLE   GIRL'S   LAMENT. 


For  there  is  no  knowing  what  people 
are  throwing 
When  things  are  tied  up  in  a  sack  ; 
Whatever  they  carry,  not  long  do  they 
tarry, 
And    always    they     come    empty 
back! 

Aunt  Clara. 


MY  PUSSY. 
Oh,  here  is  Miss  Pussy  ; 

She's  drinking  her  milk  ; 
Her  coat  is  as  soft 

And  as  glossy  as  silk. 


My  dear  little  kittens !  my  five  little 
darlings ! 

I  loved  you — the  gray  ones,  the  spot- 
ted, the  white ; 
I  brought  you  your  breakfast  of  warm 
milk  each  morning, 
And  saw  you  all  lap  it  with  keenest 
delight. 

You  played,  too,  so  merry  and  cunning 
together ; 
Your  mother  would  watch  while  she 
lay  in  the  straw, 
A-winking  her  eyes  in  the  warm  sun- 
ny weather, 
And  giving  you  sometimes  a  tap  with 
her  paw. 


ANIMALS   AND    BIRDS. 


213 


You  would  pull  at  her  tail,  at  her  ears    One  day  Tom,  the  had  hoy  who  live? 


you  would  nibble ; 
You  had  no  respect  for  her  gray 

hairs  at  all ; 
am  sure,  though,  she  liked  it,  but 

sometimes  she  scolded, 
And  said,  in  cat-language,  "  Be  off 

with  vou,  all!" 


round  the  corner, 
Stole  Spotty  and  Gray  back — I  called 

help  too  late ; 
He  never  would  tell  where  he  carried 

the  darlings, 
And  I  sigh  when  I  think  of  their 

probable  fate. 


But  one  day  poor  Whitey,  the  prettiest    Then  I  had  but  two  left  me,  and  these 
darling  a  good  neighbor 

Of  all  these  five  kittens,  grew  sick        Adopted  and  brought  up  with  kind- 
and  then  died  ;  ness  and  care ; 

I  never  again  could  have  such  a  sweet  !  Their  mother  and  I  were  both  sorry 
kitten,  to  lose  them, 

And  oh  how  I  grieved  !  and  how  !      But  we  knew  it  was  best  for  them 
sadly  I  cried  !  both  to  be  there. 


I  went  out  and  dug  her  a  grave  in  the 
garden, 
And  lined  it  all  softly  with  leaves 
and  with  moss , 
I  brought  to  the  burial  her  brothers 
and  sisters, 
Thinking    that    they     too     would 
mourn  for  her  loss. 

But  the  heartless  things  capered  and 
whisked  all  around  me — 
They    chased    a    bright    butterfly, 
searched  for  a  mouse, 
Jumped  for  the  bird  that  sang  up  in 
the  pear,  tree ; 
I  whipped  them  and  sent  them  all 
back  to  the  house. 

Then   I    filled    up   the   grave   and    I 
rounded  it  over, 
And    made   it   a   border   of   white 
pearly  stone ; 
And  on  it  I  planted  a  nice  root  of  cat- 
nip'; 
Then  left  little  Whitey  to  sleep  all 
alone. 


LITTLE  KIT. 
Pretty  Kit,  little  Kit, 

Oh,  you're  a  lovely  pet ! 
With  your  sleek  coat  and  your  white 
throat, 

And  toes  as  black  as  jet. 
It's  true  your  eye  is  rather  green, 

But  then  it  shines  so  bright, 
That  you   could   catch  the   naughty 
mouse 

Who  stole  my  cake  last  night. 
Ah,  Kitty  !  sweet  Kitty  ! 

You're  the  pet  for  me ! 
Come,  now ;  I'll  rock  you  in  my  lap 

And  nurse  you  on  my  knee. 


214 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


Pretty  Kit,  little  Kit, 
I've  often  fondled  yon 

Before  your  little  legs  could  walk, 
And  eyes  were  opened  too ; 

And  when  I  laid  you  on  the  rug- 
To  roll  you  o'er  in  play, 

Your    kind    mamma    in    her    great 
mouth 
Would  carry  you  away. 

Ah,  Kitty!  sweet  Kitty  ! 
You're  the  pet  for  me ! 

Come,  now  ;  I'll  rock  you  in  my  lap 
And  nurse  you  on  my  knee. 

Pretty  Kit,  little  Kit, 

Annie's  bird  can  sing, 
Arthur's  dog  can  carry  sticks, 

And  Mary's  parrot  swing; 
But  though  you  do  not  carry  sticks, 

Or  sing,  or  swing,  you  are, 
With   your  low  purr   and   your   soft 
fur, 

The  dearest  pet  by  far. 
Yes,  Kitty,  sweet  Kitty, 

You're  the  pet  for  me ! 
Come,  now ;  I'll  rock  you  in  my  lap 

And  nurse  you  on  my  knee. 

Oh,  you  Kit!  naughty  Kit! 

What  is  this  I  find? 
Annie's  little  bird  is  gone. 

And  Poll's  scratched  nearly  blind  ; 
Carlo's  coat  is  sadly  torn  ; 

Oh  dear !  what  shall  I  do  ? 
You've  feathers  hanging  round  your 
mouth —  » 

It's  all  been  done  by  you. 
Fie,  Kitty  !  fly,  Kitty*! 

You're  no  pet  for  me  ! 
I'll  neither  rock  you  in  my  lap 

Nor  nurse  you  on  my  knee. 

John  G.  Watts. 


THE  TWO  LITTLE  KITTENS. 

Two  little  kittens,  one  stormy  night, 
Began  to  quarrel,  and  then  to  fight ; 
One  had  a  mouse,  and  the  other  had 

none, 
And  that's  the  way  the  quarrel  begun. 


"  I'll  have  that  mouse,"  said  the  big- 
gest cat. 

"You'll  have  that  mouse?  we'll  see 
about  that!" 

"  /  ivill  have  that  mouse,"  said  the 
eldest  son ; 

"You  sha'n't  have  the  mouse,"  said 
the  little  one. 


I  told  you  before  'twas  a  stormy  night 
When  these  two  little  kittens  began  to 

fight; 
The  old  woman  seized  her  sweeping- 

broom, 
And  swept  the  two  kittens  right  out 

of  the  room. 


The  ground  was  covered  with  frost 
and  snow, 

And  the  two  little  kittens  had  no- 
where to  go ; 

So  they  laid  them  down  on  the  mat 
at  the  door. 

While  the  old  woman  finished  sweep- 
ing the  floor. 


Then  they  crept  in,  as  quiet  as  mice. 
All  wet  with  the  snow,  and  as  cold  as 

ice, 
For   they   found   it   was   better,  that 

stormy  night, 
To  lie  down  and  sleep  than  to  quarrel 

and  fight. 


ANIMALS   AMD    BIRDS. 


215 


PUSSY  CAT. 
Pussy  Cat  lives  in  the  servants'  hall, 
She  can  set  up  her  back  and  purr ; 
The  little  mice  live  in  a  crack  in  the 
wall, 
But    they  hardly   dare  venture  to 
stir ; 

For  whenever  they  think  of  taking  the 
air, 
Or  filling  their  little  maws. 
The  pussy  cat  says,  ';  Come  out,  if  you 
dare ; 
I  will  catch  you  with  my  claws." 

Scrabble,  scrabble,  scrabble,  went  all 
the  little  mice, 
For  they  smelt  the  Cheshire  cheese ; 
The  pussy  cat  said,  "  It  smells  very 
nice ; 
Now  do  come  out,  if  you  please." 

"  Squeak,"    said     the     little    mouse ; 
"  Squeak,  squeak,  squeak," 
Said  all  the  young  ones  too ; 


"  We  never  creep  out  when  cats  are 
about, 
Because  we  are  afraid  of  you''' 

So  the  cunning  old  cat  lay  down  on  a 
mat 
By  the  fire  in  the  servants'  hall : 
"  If  the  little  mice  peep,  they'll  think 
I'm  asleep;" 
So  she  rolled  herself  up  like  a  ball. 

"  Squeak,"  said  the  little  mouse :  "  we'll 
creep  out, 

And  eat  some  Cheshire  cheese ; 
That  silly  old  cat  is  asleep  on  the  mat, 

And  we  may  sup  at  our  ease." 

Nibble,  nibble,  nibble,  went  the  little 
mice. 
And  they  licked  their  little  paws  : 
Then  the  cunning  old  cat  sprang  up 
from  her  mat. 
And  caught  them  all  with  her  claws. 

Aunt  Effie's  Rhymes. 


216 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


.   .     .     -     ,-, 


THE   KITTEN   AND  THE   FALLING 
LEAVES. 

That  way  look,  my  Infant,  lo ! 
What  a  pretty  baby-show  ! 
See  the  Kitten  on  the  Wall, 
Sporting  with  the  leaves  that  fall, 
Withered     leaves  —  one  —  two  —  and 

three — 
From  the  lofty  Elder  tree ! 
Through  the  calm  and  frosty  air 
Of  this  morning  bright  and  fair. 


Eddying  round  and  round  they  sink 
Softly,  slowly  :  one  might  think, 
From  the  motions  that  are  made. 
Every 'little  leaf  conveyed 
Sylph  or  Faery  hither  tending, — 
To  this  lower  world  descending, 
Each  invisible  and  mute, 
In  his  wavering  parachute. 

But  the  Kitten,  how  she  starts, 

Crouches,  stretches,  paws,  and  darts! 

First  at  one,  and  then  its  fellow 

Just  as  light  and  just  as  yellow  ; 

There  are  many  now — now  one — 

Now  they  stop,  and  there  are  none  ; 

What  intenseness  of  desire 

In  her  upward  eye  of  fire  ! 

With  a  tiger-leap  half  way 

Now  she  meets  the  coming  prey, 

Lets  it  go  as  fast,  and  then 

Has  it  in  her  power  again  : 

Now  she  works  with  three  or  four, 

Like  an  Indian  Conjuror ; 

Quick  as  he  in  feats  of  art, 

Far  beyond  in  joy  of  heart, 


ANIMALS  and  birds. 


217 


Were  her  antics  played  in  the  eye 
Of  a  thousand  standers-by, 

Clapping  hands  with  shout  and  stare, 
What  would  little  Tabby  care 
For  the  plaudits  of  the  crowd  ? 
Over-happy  to  be  proud,  m 

Over-wealthy  in  the  treasure 
Of  her  own  exceeding  pleasure ! 


Tis  a  pretty  Baby  -treat ; 
Nor,  I  deem,  for  me  unmeet ; 
Here,  for.  neither  Babe  nor  me, 
Other  playmate  can  I  see. 
Of  the  countless  living  things, 
That  with  stir  of  feet  and  wings 
(In  the  sun  or  under  shade, 
Upon  bough  or  grassy  blade) 
And  with  busy  revellings, 
Chirp  and  song,  and  murmurings, 
Made  this  Orchard's  narrow  space 
And  this  Vale  so  blithe  a  place ; 
Multitudes  are  swept  away, 
Never  more  to  breathe  the  day : 
Some  are  sleeping ;  some  in  Bands 
Travelled  into  distant  Lands  ; 
Others  slunk  to  moor  and  wood, 
Far  from  human  neighborhood  ; 
And,  among  the  kinds  that  keep 
With  us  closer  fellowship, 
With  us  openly  abide, 
All  have  laid  their  mirth  aside. 

Where  is  he,  that  giddy  Sprite, 

Blue-cap,  with  his  colors  bright, 
Who  was  blest  as  bird  could  be, 
Feeding  in  the  apple  tree ; 
Made  such  wanton  spoil  and  rout, 
Turning  blossoms  inside  out ; 
Hung  with  head  toward  the  ground, 
Fluttered,  perched,  into  a  round 
Bound  himself,  and  then  unbound : 
Lithest,  gaudiest  Harlequin  ! 
Prettiest  Tumbler  ever  seen  ! 


Light  of  heart  and  light  of  limb ; 
What  is  now  become  of  him  ? 
Lambs,  that  through  the  mountains 

went 
Frisking,  bleating  merriment, 
When  the  year  was  in  its  prime, 
They  are  sobered  by  this  time. 
If  you  look  to  vale  or  hill, 
If  you  listen,  all  is  still, 
Save  a  little  neighboring  Rill, 
That  from  out  the  rocky  ground 
Strikes  a  solitary  sound. 
Vainly  glitter  hill  and  plain, 
And  the  air  is  calm  in  vain ; 
Vainly  Morning  spreads  the  lure 
Of  a  sky  serene  and  pure ; 
Creature  none  can  she  decoy 
Into  open  sign  of  joy : 
Is  it  that  they  have  a  fear 
Of  the  dreary  season  near  ? 
Or  that  other  pleasures  be 
Sweeter  even  than  gayety  ? 

Yet,  whate'er  enjoyments  dwell 

In  the  impenetrable  cell 

Of  the  silent  heart  which  Nature 

Furnishes  to  every  Creature ; 

Whatsoe'er  we  feel  and  know 

Too  sedate  for  outward  show, 

Such  a  light  of  gladness  breaks, 

Pretty  Kitten  !  from  thy  freaks, — 

Spreads  with  such  a  living  grace 

O'er  my  little  Laura's  face  ; 

Yes,  the  sight  so  stirs  and  charms 

Thee,  Baby,  laughing  in  my  arms, 

That  almost  I  could  repine 

That  your  transports  are  not  mine, 

That  I  do  not  wholly  fare 

Even  as  ye  do,  thoughtless  Pair; 

And  I  will  have  my  careless  season 

Spite  of  melancholy  reason, 

Will  walk  through  life  in  such  a  Avay 

That,  when  time  brings  on  decay, 


218 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


Now  and  then  I  may  possess 

Hours  of  perfect  gladsomeness. 

— Pleased  by  any  random  toy  ; 

By  a  Kitten's  busy  joy, 

Or  an  Infant's  laughing  eye, 

Sharing  in  the  ecstasy  ; 

I  would  fare  like  that  or  this. 

Find  my  wisdom  in  my  bliss  ; 

Keep  the  sprightly  soul  awake, 

And  have  faculties  to  take, 

Even  from  things  by  sorrow  wrought, 

Matter  for  a  jocund  thought, 

Spite  of  care,  and  spite  of  grief, 

To  gambol  with  Life's  falling  Leaf. 

William   Wordsworth. 

THE  CAT'S  THANKSGIVING  DAY. 

"  Give  me  turkey  for  my  dinner," 

Said  a  tabby  cat. 
"  Before  you  get  it  you'll  be  thinner; 

Go  and  catch  a  rat," 
Said  the  cook,  her  pastry  making, 

Looking  fierce  and  red, 
And  a  heavy  roller  shaking 

Over  Pussy's  head. 

Hark!  her  kittens'  shriller  mewing; 

"  Give  us  pie,"  said  they 
To  the  cook,  amid  her  stewing, 

On  Thanksgiving  Day. 
"  Pie,  indeed  !  you  idle  creatures  ! 

Who'd  have  thought  of  that? 
Wash  your  paws  and  faces  neater, 

And  go  hunt.     'Scat!     'Scat!" 

So  they  went  and  did  their  duty, 
Diligent  and  still  ; 

Exercise  improved  their  beauty, 
As  it  always  will. 

Useful  work  and  early  rising- 
Brought  a  merry  mood. 

And  they  found  the  cook's  advising, 
Though  severe,  was  good. 

Youth's  Companion-. 


CLEOPATRA. 

We've  called  our  young  puss  Cleopa- 
tra ; 
Twas  grandpa  who  named  her  like 
that. 
He  says  it  means  "  fond  of  good  living ;" 
A  queer-enough  name  for  a  cat ! 

She  leads  the  most  lovely  existence, 
And  one  which  appears  to  enchant : 

Asleep  in  the  sun  like  a  snowflake 
That  tries  to  get  melted  and  can't ; 

Or  now  and  then  languidly  strolling 
Through  plots  of  the  garden,  to  steal 

On  innocent  grasshoppers,  crunching 
Her  cruel  and  murderous  meal  ; 

Or  lapping  from  out  of  her  saucer — 
The  dainty  and  delicate  elf! — 

With  appetite  spoiled  in  the  garden. 
New  milk  that's  as  white  as  herself. 

Dear !    dear !    could  we  only   change 
places, 

This  do-nothing  pussy  and  I, 
You'd  think  it  hard  work,  Cleopatra, 

To  live  as  the  moments  went  by. 

Ah!  how  would  you  relish,  I  wonder, 
To  sit  in  a  schoolroom  for  hours  ? 

You'd  find  it  less  pleasant,  I  fancy. 
Than  murdering  bugs  in  the  flowers. 

Edgar  Fawcett. 


ANIMALS   AMD    BIRDS.  219 


PUSSY'S  CLASS.  |  "And  where  are  your  claws?  no.  no 

"  Now,    children,"   said    Puss,  as  she  ni.v  "ear 

shook  her  head,  I  (As  she  took  up  a  paw).    "See!  they're 

"  It  is  time  your  morning  lesson  was  hidden  here: 

said."  Then  all  the  kittens  crowded  about 

So  her  kittens  drew  near  with  footsteps    To  see  their  sharp  little  claws  brought 


slow, 
And   sat  down    before    her.  all    in    a 
row. 


out. 


They  felt  quite  sure  they  should  never 

need 

To  use  such  weapons — oh, no, indeed! 
u  Attention,  class  !    said  the  cat-mam-     i>   +  +]    •       • 

But  their  wise  mamma  gave  a  pussy  s 

.    XT\,  ■  i      i  -Pshaw!" 

u  And  tell  me  quick  where  your  noses  .     i  i         ,  ,,    •  -,,    n  &    . 

^  •  And  boxed  their  ears  with  her  softest 

are. 

At  this  all  the  kittens  sniffed  the  air 

As  though  it  were  filled  with  a  perfume  "  Now,  '  Sptiss !'  as  hard  as  you  can," 

rare.  she  said ; 

But  every  kitten  hung  down  its  head  ; 

"Now   what   do   you   say  when  you  "'Sptiss!'  I  say,"  cried  the  mother- 
want  a  drink  ?"  cat. 

The  kittens  waited  a  moment  to  think,  But  they  said  "  Oh,  mammy,  we  can't 

And  then  the  answer  came  clear  and  do  that !" 

,»  ,  ,        ,  ,        ,   ,         ,,  "Then  so  and   play,"  said  the  fond 

lou  ought  to  have  heard  how  those 

,  ...  n .  mamma ; 

kittens  meowed !  (,xn  v    «    .,.,,.,,  , 

\\  hat  sweet  little  idiots  kittens  are! 

Ah  well !  I  was  once  the  same,  I  sup- 
"  Very  well.     'Tis  the   same,  with   a  ))0ge  » 

sharper  tone,  ^nj  s^e  looked  very  wise  and  rubbed 

When  you  want  a  fish  or  a  bit  of  bone,  ilpr  nncp 

J  uel   nose.  Mary  Mapes  Dodoe. 

Now  what  do  you  say  when  children 

are  good  ?" — 

And  the  kittens  purred  as  soft  as  they  PUSS  AND  THE  BEAR. 

could.  x  fierce  grizzly  bear, 

With  shaggy  gray  hair. 

"  And  what  do  you  do  when  children  Lay  on  the  low  branch  of  a  pine ; 

are  bad—  Above  him  there  sat 

When  they  tease  and  pull  ?"     Each  A  cunning  wild  cat, 

kitty  looked  sad.  Who  guessed  that  he  wanted  to  dine. 
"Pooh!"  said  their  mother,  "that  isn't 

enough  ;  At  last  Bruin  spied 

You  must  use  your  claws  when  ehil-  Where  Puss  wished  to  hide, 

dren  are  rough.  And,  being  quite  hungry  and  tired. 


220 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


Said,  "  Pray,  Miss  Puss,  come 
Down  here  to  my  home  ; 
Oh,   how   your    sweet   face    I've    ad- 
mired !" 

But  Puss  wisely  thought, 
If  she  should  he  caught, 
Her  poor  bones  Bruin  quickly  would 
crunch  ; 
So  she  slyly  said,  "  Bear, 
I'll  take  very  good  care 
You   don't   gobble    me   up   for   your 
lunch." 

Yet,  being  polite, 

She  judged  it  but  right 
To  give  an  excuse  for  refusing ; 

So  at  once  up  she  stood, 

Still  as  high  as  she  could, 
And   said,  "  I  can't  do  what  you're 
choosing ; 

"  But  here's  such  a  fine  view — 
I  wish  you  would  come  too  ; 
I  am  sure  it  would  please  your  good 
taste. 
It's  easy  to  climb 
In  almost  no  time ; 
So    pray   come    up   here,   sir — make 
haste !" 

Bruin  thought,  "  That  will  do! 

Puss  soon  shall  cry  '  Mew!' 
Ah,  how  silly  a  young  cat  is  she ! 

I'll  very  soon  stride 

Close  up  to  her  side, 
When  she'll  make  a  nice  luncheon  for 
me." 

So  he  said,  "  Thank  you,  Puss  ; 

Without  any  more  fuss 
I'll  come  up  your  prospect  to  see." 

But  old  Bruin  forgot 
That  a  slim  branch  would  not 
Hold  up  such  a  monster  as  he ; 


Down  he  came  with  a  crack, 
Tumbling  flat  on  his  back, 
To  the  stones  at  the  foot  of  the  tree. 

Oh,  how  Puss  did  pun- 
To  think  her  sleek  fur 
Had  'scaped  the   rude  clutch    of  his 
paws ! 
But  more  was  she  pleased 
To  think  she  had  teased 
Bruin,  who  would  have  seized 
And   munched   her   up  in   his   great 
jaws. 

THE  LAST  DYING   SPEECH  AND  CON- 
FESSION OF  POOR  PUSS. 

Kind    masters   and   misses,    whoever 

you  be, 
Do  stop  for  a  moment  and  pity  poor 

me, 
While  here  on  my  deathbed  I  try  to 

relate 
My  many    misfortunes   and  miseries 

great. 

My    dear   mother   Tabby    I've    often 

heard  say 
That  I  have  been  a  very  fine  cat  in 

my  day  ; 
But  the  sorrows  in  which  my  whole 

life  has  been  passed 
Have  spoilt  all  my  beauty,  and  killed 

me  at  last. 

Poor  thoughtless  young  thing !    if  I 

recollect  right, 
I  was  kittened  in  March,  on  a  clear 

frosty  night ; 
And  before  I  could  see  or  was  half  a 

wreek  old 
I  nearly  had  perished,  the  barn  was 

so  cold. 


ANIMALS   AND    BIRDS. 


221 


But  this   chilly   spring  I  got   pretty  I  And  then  the  great  dog !  I  shall  never 

well  over,  forget  him, 

And  moused  in  the  hay-loft  or  played  How  many  a  time  my  young  master 

in  the  clover;  would  set  him, 

Or  till  I  was  weary,  which  seldom  oc-  And  while  1  stood   terrified,  all  of  a 

curred,  quake, 

Ran  after  my  tail,  which  I  took  for  a  Cry,  "  Hey,  cat !"  and  "  Seize  her,  boy  ! 

bird.  give  her  a  shake  !" 

But  ah  !  my  poor  tail  and  my  pretty  Sometimes,  when  so  hungry  I  could 

sleek  ears  !  not  forbear 

The  farmer's  boy    cut    them    all    off  Just   taking  a  scrap    that  I   thought 

with  his  shears ;  they  could  spare, 

How  little  I  thought,  when  1  licked  Oh,  what  have  I  suffered  with  beating 

them  so  clean,  and  banging, 

I  should  be  such  a  figure,  not  fit  to  be  Or  starved  for  a  fortnight,  or  threatened 

seen  !  with  hanging  ! 

Some  time  after  this,  when  the  places  But  kicking,  and  beating,  and  starving, 

were  healed,  and  that, 

As  I  lay  in  the  sun,  sound  asleep  in  I've  borne  with  a  spirit  becoming  a 

the  field,  cat : 

Miss  Fanny  crept  slyly,  and,  grasping  There  was  but  one  thing  which  I  could 

me  fast,  not  sustain, 

Declared   she  had   caught  the   sweet  So  great  was  my  sorrow,  so  hopeless 

creature  at  last.  my  pain. 

Ah  me !  how  I  struggled  my  freedom  One  morning,  laid  safe  in  a  warm  little 

to  gain  !  bed 

But,  alas!  all  my  kicking  and  struggles  That  down  in  the  stable  I'd  carefully 

were  vain ;  spread, 

For  she  held  me  so  tight,  in  her  pina-  Three  sweet  little  kittens  as  ever  you 

fore  tied,  saw 

That  before  she  got  home  I  had  liked  I  hid,  as  I  thought,  in  some  trusses  of 

to  have  died.  straw. 

From  this  dreadful  morning  my  sor-  I  was  never  so  happy,  I  think,  nor  so 

rows  arose  ;  proud  ; 

Wherever  I  went  I  was  followed  with  I  mewed  to   my  kittens   and  purred 

blows ;  out  aloud, 

Some   kicked   me   for  nothing  while  And  thought  with  delight  of  the  merry 

quietly  sleeping,  carousing 

Or  flogged  me  for  daring  the  pantry  We'd  have  when    I   first  took  them 

to  peep  in.  with  me  a-mousing. 


222 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


But  how  shall  I  tell  you  the  sorrowful 
ditty  ? 

I'm  sure  it  would  melt  even  Growler 
to  pity ; 

For  the  very  next  morning  my  dar- 
lings I  found 

Lying  dead  by  the  horse-pond,  all 
mangled  and  drowned. 

Poor  darlings !  I  dragged  them  along 

to  the  stable, 
And  did  all  to  warm  them  a  mother 

was  able ; 
But,  alas !  all  my  licking  and  mewing 

were  vain, 
And    I   thought   I   should    never   be 

happy  again. 

However,  time  gave  me  a  little  re- 
lief, 

And  mousing  diverted  the  thoughts 
of  my  grief, 

And  at  last  I  began  to  be  gay  and 
content, 

Till  one  dreadful  night  I  sincerely  re- 
pent. 

Miss  Fanny  was  fond  of  a  little  ca- 
nary, 

That  tempted  me  more  than  mouse, 
pantry,  or  dairy  ; 

So,  not  having  eaten  a  morsel  all 
clay, 

I  flew  to  the  bird-cage  and  tore  it 
away. 

Now  tell  me,  my  friends,  was  the  like 
ever  heard, 

That  a  cat  should  be  killed  for  just 
catching  a  bird? 

And  I'm  sure  not  the  slightest  sus- 
picion I  had 

But  that  catching  a  mouse  was  exactly 
as  bad. 


Indeed,  I  can  say,  with  my  paw  on  my 

heart, 
I  would  not  have  acted  a  mischievous 

part ; 
But,  as  dear  mother  Tabby  was  often 

repeating, 
I    thought   birds   and   mice  were  on 

purpose  for  eating. 

Be  this  as  it  may,  when  my  supper 
was  o'er, 

And  but  a  few  feathers  were  left  on 
the  floor, 

Came  Fanny,  and,  scolding,  and  fight- 
ing, and  crying, 

She  gave  me  these  bruises  of  which  I 
am  dying. 

But  I  feel   that  my  breathing  grows 

shorter  apace, 
And  cold  clammy  sweats  trickle  down 

from  my  face  :  : 

I  forgive  little  Fanny  this  bruise  on 

my  side. — 
She  stopped,  gave  a  sigh  and  a  strug- 


gle, and  died  ! 


Jane  Taylor. 


PUSS  PUNISHED. 
Oh,  naughty  puss!  you  must  not  play 
And  romp  with  Dolly  thus,  I  say; 
You  spoil  her  curls  and  ruffles  too, 
And  make  her  quite  a  fright — you  do. 

Shame  !  puss,  to  treat  poor  Dolly  so ! 
The  simple  thing,  that  cannot  sew, 
And  mend  her  clothes  when  they  are 

torn, 
Or  run  away  when  thus  forlorn. 

My  mother  tells  me  'tis  unkind 
To  treat  the  helpless  thus  ;  so  mind, 
If  you  repeat  your  tricks,  old  cat, 
Your  ears  shall  pay  for  it — that's  fiat. 


ANIMALS   AND    BIRDS. 


223 


CATCHING  THE  CAT. 

The  mice  had  met  in  council ; 

They  all  looked  haggard  and  worn, 
For  the  state  of  affairs  was  too  terrible 

To  be  any  longer  borne. 
Not  a  family  out  of  mourning — 

There  was  crape  on  every  hat. 
They  were  desperate :  something  must 
be  done, 

And  done  at  once,  to  the  cat. 

An  elderly  member  rose  and  said, 

"  It  might  prove  a  possible  thing 
To  set  the  trap  which  they  set  for  us — 

That  one  with  the  awful  spring!" 
The  suggestion  was  applauded 

Loudly,  by  one  and  all, 
Till  somebody  squeaked,  t;  That  trap 
would  be 

About  ninety-five  times  too  small!" 

Then  a  medical  mouse  suggested — 

A  little  under  his  breath — 
The}'  should  confiscate  the  very  first 
mouse 

That  died  a  natural  death  ; 
And  he'd  undertake  to  poison  the  cat, 

If  they'd  let  him  prepare  that  mouse. 
"  There's  not  been  a  natural  death," 
they  shrieked, 

"  Since  the  cat  came  into  the  house !" 

The  smallest  mouse  in  the  council 

Arose  with  a  solemn  air, 
And,  by  way  of  increasing  his  stature, 

Rubbed  up  his  whiskers  and  hair. 
He  waited  until  there  was  silence 

All  along  the  pantry-shelf, 
And  then  he  said  with  dignity, 

"/will  catch  the  cat  myself! 

"  When  next  I  hear  her  coming, 
Instead  of  running  away, 


I  shall  turn  and  face  her  boldly, 

And  pretend  to  be  at  play  : 
She  will  not  see  her  danger, 

Poor  creature  !  1  suppose  ; 
But  as  she  stoops  to  catch  me, 

1  shall  catch  her  by  the  nose !" 

The  mice  began  to  look  hopeful, 

Yes,  even  the  old  ones,  when 
A  gray-haired  sage  said  slowly, 

"  And  what  will   you  do  with   her 
then  ?" 
The  champion,  disconcerted, 

Replied  with  dignity,  "  Well, 
I  think,  if  you'll  all  excuse  me, 

'Twould  be  wiser  not  to  tell. 

"  We  all  have  our  inspirations — " 

This  produced  a  general  smirk — 
"  But  we  are  not  all  at  liberty 

To  explain  just  how  they'll  work. 
I  ask  you,  then,  to  trust  me : 

You  need  have  no  further  fears — 
Consider  our  enemy  done  for!" 

The  council  gave  three  cheers. 

"  I  do  believe  she's  coming !" 

Said  a  small  mouse,  nervously. 
"  Run,  if  you  like,"  said  the  champion, 

"  But  /shall  wait  and  see  !" 
And  sure  enough  she  was  coming; 

The  mice  all  scampered  away 
Except  the  noble  champion 

Who  had  made  up  his  mind  to  stay. 

The  mice  had  faith — of  course  they 
had— 

They  were  all  of  them  noble  souls. 
But  a  sort  of  general  feeling 

Kept  them  safely  in  their  holes 
Until  some  time  in  the  evening ; 

Then  the  boldest  ventured  out, 
And  saw,  happily  in  the  distance, 

The  cat  prance  gayly  about ! 


224 


THE    CHILDREN'S  BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


There  was  dreadful  consternation, 
Till  some  one  at  last  said,  "  Oh, 

He's  not  had  time  to  do  it — 
Let  us  not  prejudge  him  so!" 

"  I  believe  in  him,  of  course  I  do," 
Said  the  nervous  mouse  with  a  sigh, 

;"  But  che  cat  looks  uncommonly  hap- 

py, 

And  I  wish  I  did  know  why !" 

The  cat,  I  regret  to  mention, 

►Still  prances  about  that  house, 
And  no  message,  letter,  or  telegram 

Has  come  from  the  champion  mouse. 
The  mice  are  a  little  discouraged ; 

The  demand  for  crape  goes  on; 
They  feel  they'd  be  happier  if  they 
knew 

Where   the   champion    mouse    has 
gone. 

This  story  has  a  moral — 

It  is  very  short,  you  see, 
So  no  one,  of  course,  will  skip  it, 

For  fear,  of  offending' me. 
It  is  well  to  be  courageous, 

And  valiant,  and  all  that, 
But — if  you  are  mice — you'd  better 
think  twice 

Before  you  catch  the  cat. 

Margaret  Vandegrift. 

KITTEN  GOSSIP. 

Kitten,  kitten,  two  months  old, 
Woolly  snowball,  lying  snug, 

Curled  up  in  the  warmest  fold 
Of  the  warm  hearth-rug  ! 

Turn  your  drowsy  head  this  way: 

What'is  Life  ?     Oh.  kitten,  say  ! 

"Life?"  said  the  kitten,  winking  her 
eyes, 

And  twitching  her  tail  in  a  droll  sur- 
prise— 


"  Life?     Oh,  it's  racing  over  the  floor, 

Out  at  the  window  and  in  at  the  door; 

Now  on  the  chair-back,  now  on  the 
table, 
'Mid  balls  of  cotton  and  skeins  of 

silk, 
And  crumbs  of  sugar  and  jugs  of 
milk, 

All  so  cozy  and  comfortable. 

It's  patting  the  little  dog's  ears,  and 
leaping 

Round  him  and  over  him  while  lie's 
sleeping — 

Waking  him  up  in  a  sore  affright, 

Then  off  and  away  like  a  flash  of  light, 

Scouring  and  scampering  out  of  sight. 

Life?     Oh,  its  rolling  over  and  over 

On  the  summer-green  turf  and  bud- 
ding clover ; 

Chasing  the  shadows  as  fast  as  they 
run 

Down  the  garden-paths  in    the  mid- 
day sun, 

Prancing  and  gambolling,  brave  and 
bold, 

Climbing    the-  tree-stems,    scratching 
the  mould — 

That's  life !"  said  the  kitten  two  months 
old. 

Kitten,  kitten,  come  sit  on  my  knee, 
And  lithe  and  listen,  kitten,  to  me ; 
One  by  one,  oh  !  one  by  one, 
The  sly,  swift  shadows  sweep  over  the 

sun — 
Daylight  dieth,  and  kittenhood's  done. 
And,   kitten,    oh!    the   rain   and   the 

wind ! 
For    cathood    cometh,    with    careful 

mind, 
And  grave  cat-duties  follow  behind. 
Hark !  there's  a  sound  you  cannot  hear ; 
I'll  whisper  its  meaning  in  your  ear: 


ANIMALS   AND    BIRDS. 


225 


Mice! 


And  sharpen  your  teeth  and  stretch 


eyes, 


(The  kitten  stared  with  her  great  green  ,  your  jaws 

Then  woe  to  the  tribes  of  pickers  and 

stealers, 
Nibblers  and  gnawers,  and  evil-deal- 
ers ! 


And  twitched  her  tail  in  a  queer  sur- 
prise.) 


Mice!  |  But  now  that  you  know  life's  not  pre- 

No  more  tit-bits  dainty  and  nice ;  cisely 

No  more  mischief  and  no  more  play  ;  ;  The   thing    your    fancy   pictured    so 
But  watching  by  night  and  sleeping  ;  nicely, 


by  day 


Off  and  away  !  race  over  the  floor, 


Prowling  wherever  the  foe  doth  lurk —    Out  of  the  window,   and   in   at  the 


Very  short  commons  and  very  sharp 

work. 
And,    kitten,    oh !    the   hail   and   the 

thunder — 
That's  a  blackish  cloud,  but  a  black  - 

er's  under. 
Hark !  but  you'll  fall  from  my  knee, 

I  fear, 
When  I  whisper  that  awful  word  in 

your  ear : 

R-r-r-rats ! 

(The   kitten's   heart  beat  with   great 

pit-pats, 
But  her  whiskers  quivered,  and  from 

their  sheath 
Flashed  out  the  sharp,  white,  pearly 

teeth.) 

R-r-r-rats! 


door ; 

Roll  in  the  turf  and  bask  in  the 
sun, 

Ere  night-time  cometh  and  kitten- 
hood's  done. 

Thomas  Westwood. 


THE  CAT'S  APOLOGY. 

GIRL. 

You  must  not  scratch,  dear  pussy- 
cat, 

Nor  use  your  long,  sharp  claws  like 
that ; 

Give  me  a  nice  soft  paw  to  pat ! 

CAT. 

Dear  child,  that  will  I  gladly  do ; 


The  scorn  of  dogs,  but  the  terror  of     But  let  me  say  a  word  or  two. 


cats ; 
The   cruellest   foes    and    the   fiercest 
fighters ; 


Who  hurts  and  teases  first?      Don't 

you  ? 
Suppose  a  child  may  now  and  then 


The  sauciest  thieves  and  the  sharpest    Give  to  a  cat  a  little  pain, 


biters. 


May  not  a  poor  cat  scratch  again? 


But,  kitten,   I   see  you've  a  stoutish    And  though  a  blood-drop  stain  the 


heart, 


arm, 


So  courage !  and  play  an  honest  part ;  |  Yet  neither  meant  the  other  harm ; 


Use  well  your  paws, 

And  strengthen  your  claws, 

15 


Then    let    us    be    good    friends    and 
warm. 


226 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY 


THE  YOUNG  MOUSE. 
In  a  crack  near  the  cupboard,  with 

dainties  provided, 
A    certain    young    mouse   with    her 

mother  resided  ; 
So  securely  they  lived  in  that  snug, 

quiet  spot, 
Any  mouse  in  the  land  might  have 

envied  their  lot. 

But  one  day  the  young  mouse,  who  was 

given  to  roam, 
Having  made  an  excursion  some  way 

from  her  home, 
On  a  sudden  returned,  with  such  joy 

in  her  eyes, 
That  her  gray,  sedate  parent  expressed 

some  surprise. 

'•  Oh  mother !"  said  she, "  the  good  folks 
of  this  house, 

I'm  convinced,  have  not  any  ill-will  to 
a  mouse ; 

And  those  tales  can't  be  true  you  always 
are  telling, 

For  they've  been  at  such  pains  to  con- 
struct us  a  dwelling. 

"  The  floor  is  of  wood,  and  the  walls  are 
of  wires, 

Exactly  the  size  that  one's  comfort  re- 
quires ; 

And  I'm  sure  that  we  there  should 
have  nothing  to  fear 

If  ten  cats,  with  their  kittens,  at  once 
should  appear. 

"  And  then  they  have  made  such  nice 

holes  in  the  wall, 
One  could   slip  in   and  out  with  no 

trouble  at  all ; 
But  forcing  one  through  such  rough 

crannies  as  these 
Always  gives  one's  poor  ribs  a  most 

terrible  squeeze. 


"  But  the  best  of  all  is,  they've  provid- 
ed us  well 

With  a  large  piece  of  cheese  of  most 
exquisite  smell ; 

'Twas  so  nice  I  had  put  in  my  head 
to  go  through, 

When  I  thought  it  my  duty  to  come 
and  fetch  you." 

"Ah,  child!"  said  her  mother,  "be- 
lieve, I  entreat, 

Both  the  cage  and  the  cheese  are  a 
terrible  cheat; 

Do  not  think  all  that  trouble  they  took 
for  our  good ; 

They  would  catch  us  and  kill  us  all 
there  if  the}7  could — 

"As  they've  caught  and  killed  scores, 

and  I  never  could  learn 
That  a  mouse  who  once  entered  did 

ever  return !" 
Let  the  young  people  mind  what  the  old 

people  say, 
And  when  danger  is  near  them,  keep  out 

of  the  way. 


"RUN,  MOUSEY,  RUN!" 

I  am  sitting  by  the  fireside, 

Reading,  and  very  still ; 
There  comes  a  little  sharp-eyed  mouse, 

And  run  about  he  will. 

He  flies  along  the  mantelpiece, 
He  darts  beneath  the  fender ; 

It's  just  as  well  that  Jane's  not  here, 
Or  into  fits  he'd  send  her. 

And  now  he's  nibbling  at  some  cake. 

She  left  upon  the  table  ; 
He  seems  to  think  I'm  somebody 

To  hurt  a  mouse  unable. 


ANIMALS   AjYD    BIRDS. 


227 


Run.  Mouse}',  run  !     I  hear  the  cat  ; 

She's  scratching  at  the  door ; 
Once   she   comes   in  you'll   have   no 
chance 

Beneath  her  savage  claw. 

Run,    Mousey,    run !    I    hear    Jane's 
foot ; 

She's  coming  up  to  bed ; 
If  Puss  but  makes  a  spring  at  you, 

Poor  Mousey,  you'll  be  dead ! 


WHAT  ARE  THEY  DOING? 

"  Little  sparrow,  come  here  and  say 
What  you're  doing  all  the  day." 

"Oh,  I  fly  over  hedges  and  ditches  to 

find 
A   fat   little   worm    or   a   fly   to   my 

mind ; 
And  I  carry  it  back  to  my  own  pretty 

nest 
For  the  dear  little  pets  that  I  warm 

with  my  breast ; 
For  until  I  can  teach  them  the  way 

how  to  fly, 
If  I  did  not  feed  them  my  darlings 

would  die. 
How  glad  they  all  are  when  they  see 

me  come  home ! 
And  each  of  them  chirps,  "Give  me 

some !  give  me  some !" 

"  Little  lamb,  come  here  and  say 
What  you're  doing  all  the  day." 

"  Long  enough  before  you  wake 
Breakfast  I  am  glad  to  take 
In  the  meadow,  eating  up 
Daisy,  cowslip,  buttercup ; 
Then  about  the  fields  I  play, 
Frisk  and  scamper  all  the  day. 


When  I'm  thirsty  I  can  drink 
Water  at  the  river's  brink ; 
When  at  night  I  go  to  sleep, 
By  my  mother  I  must  keep  : 
I  am  safe  enough  from  cold 
At  her  side  within  the  fold." 

:    "  Little  bee,  come  here  and  say 
What  you're  doing  all  the  day." 

!  "  Oh,  every  day,  and  all  day  long, 
I  Among    the    flowers    you    hear    my 
song  ; 

I  creep  in  every  bud  I  see, 

And  all  the  honey  is  for  me. 

I  take  it  to  the  hive  with  care, 

And  give  it  to  my  brothers  there, 
j  That  when  the  winter-time  comes  on. 

And   all    the    flowers   are   dead   and 
gone, 

And  the  wild  wind  is  cold  and  rough, 

The  busy  bees  may  have  enough." 

"  Little  fly,  come  here  and  say 
What  you're  doing  all  the  day." 

"  Oh,  I  am  a  gay  and  merry  fly  ; 
1  I  never  do  anything — no,  not  I. 
|  I  go  where  I  like,  and  I  stay  where  I 
please, 
In  the  heat  of  the  sun  or  the  shade 
of  the  trees, 
I  On  the  window-pane  or  the  cupboard 

shelf, 
j  And  I  care  for  nothing  except  my- 
self. 
I  cannot  tell,  it  is  very  true, 
When  the  winter  comes  what  I  mean 

to  do  ; 
And  I  very  much  fear,  when  I'm  get- 
ting old, 
I  shall  starve  with  hunger  or  die  with 
cold." 


228 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


THEY  DIDN'T  THINK. 

Once  a  trap  was  baited 

With  a  piece  of  cheese  : 
It  tickled  so  a  little  mouse 

It  almost  made  him  sneeze. 
An  old  rat  said,  "  There's  danger ! 

Be  careful  where  you  go  !" 
"  Nonsense  !"  said  the  other, 
"  I  don't  think  you  know  ! 
So  he  walked  in  boldly — 

Nobody  in  sight ; 
First  he  took  a  nibble, 

Then  he  took  a  bite ; 
Close  the  trap  together 

Snapped  as  quick  as  wink, 
Catching  Mousey  fast  there, 

'Cause  he  didn't  think. 

Once  a  little  turkey, 

Fond  of  her  own  way, 
Wouldn't  ask  the  old  ones 

Where  to  go  or  stay  ; 
She  said,  "  I'm  not  a  baby  ; 

Here  I  am  half  grown  ; 
Surely  I  am  big  enough 

To  run  about  alone  !" 
Off  she  went,  but  somebody, 

Hiding,  saw  her  pass  ; 
Soon  like  snow  her  feathers 

Covered  all  the  grass. 
So  she  made  a  supper 

For  a  sly  young  mink, 
'Cause  she  was  so  headstrong 

That  she  wouldn't  think. 

Once  there  was  a  robin 

Lived  outside  the  door, 
Who  wanted  to  go  inside 
And  hop  upon  the  floor. 
"  Oh  no,"  said  the  mother, 
"  You  must   stay  with  me ; 
Little  birds  are  safest 
Sitting  in  a  tree." 


"  I  don't  care,"  said  Robin, 

And  gave  his  tail  a  fling ; 
"  I  don't  think  the  old  folks 

Know  quite  everything." 
Down  he  flew,  and  Kitty  seized  him 

Before  he'd  time  to  blink. 
"  Oh,"  he  cried,  "  I'm  sorry  ! 

But  I  didn't  think." 


Now,  my  little  children, 

You  who  read  this  song, 
Don't  you  see  what  trouble 

Comes  of  thinking  wrong  ? 
And  can't  you  take  a  warning 

From  their  dreadful  fate, 
Who  began  their  thinking 

When  it  was  too  late  ? 
Don't  think  there's  always  safety 

Where  no  danger  shows  ; 
Don't  suppose  you  know  more 

Than  anybody  knows ; 
But  when  you're  warned  of  ruin. 

Pause  upon  the  brink, 
And  don't  go  under  headlong 

'Cause  you  didn't  think. 

Phcebe  Caky. 


BIRDS  IN  SUMMER. 

How  pleasant  the  life  of  a  bird  must 
be, 

Flitting  about  in  each  leafy  tree — 

In  the  leafy  trees,  so  broad  and  tall. 

Like  a  green  and  beautiful  palace- 
hall. 

With  its  airy  chambers,  light  and 
boon, 

That  open  to  sun,  and  stars,  and 
moon — 

That  open  unto  the  bright  blue  sky, 

And  the  frolicsome  winds  as  they  wan- 
der by  ! 


ANIMALS   AND    BIRDS. 


229 


They  have  left  their  nests  in  the  forest 
bough — 

Those  homes  of  delight  they  need  not 
now — 

And  the  young  and  the  old  they  wan- 
der out, 

And  traverse  their  green  world  round 
about : 

And  hark !  at  the  top  of  this  leafy 
hall, 

How  one  to  the  other  they  lovingly 
call! 


And  the   birds   below  give   back  the 

cry, 
"  We  come,  we  come  to  the  branches 

high !" 
How  pleasant  the  life  of  a  bird  must 

be, 
Flitting  about  in  a  leafy  tree  ! 
And  away  through  the  air  what  joy  to 

go, 
And  to  look  on  the  bright  green  earth 

below  ! 

How  pleasant  the  life  of  a  bird  must 

be, 
Skimming  about  on  the  breezy  sea, 
Cresting  the  billows  like  silvery  foam, 
And  then  wheeling  away  to  its  cliff- 
built  home ! 
What  joy  it  must  be  to  sail,  upborne 
By  a   strong   free  wing,  through  the 

ros}''  morn, 
To  meet  the  young  sun  face  to  face, 
And  pierce  like  a  shaft  the  boundless 


space 


How  pleasant  the  life  of  a  bird  must 

be, 
Wherever  it  listeth,  there  to  flee ; 
To  go,  when  a  joyful  fancy  calls, 
Dashing  adown  'mong  the  waterfalls. 
Then  wheeling  about  with  its  mates 

at  play, 


•'Come  up,  come  up!"  they  seem  to  |  Above   and    below>   and    among   the 

spray, 


say, 

"  Where   the  topmost    twigs    in    the 
breezes  sway ! 


Hither  and  thither,  with  screams  as 

wild 
As  the  laughing  mirth  of  a  rosy  child ! 


"  Come  up,  come  up,  for  the  world  is    What  joy  it  must  be,  like  a   living 


fair, 


breeze 


Where  the  merry  leaves  dance  in  the  j  To  nutter  about  'mong  the  flowering 


summer  air 


trees ; 


230 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


Lightly  to  soar,  and  to  see  beneath 
The  wastes  of  the  blossoming  purple 

heath, 
And  the  yellow  furze   like  fields  of 

gold 
That  gladden  some  fairy  regions  old  ! 
On  mountain-tops,  on  the  billowy  sea, 
On  the  leafy  stems  of  the  forest  tree, 
How  pleasant  the  life  of  a  bird  must 

be! 

Mary  Howitt. 


THE  LITTLE  MAIDEN  AND  THE  LITTLE 
BIRD. 

"  Little  bird !    little  bird  !    come  to 

me! 
I  have  a  green  cage  ready  for  thee ; 
Beauty-bright  flowers  I'll  bring  anew, 
And  fresh,  ripe  cherries  all  wet  with 

dew." 

"  Thanks,   little   maiden,  foj  all  thy 

care, 
But  I  love  dearly  the  clear,  cool  air, 
And  my  snug  little  nest  in  the  old 

oak  tree." 
"  Little  bird !    little  bird !    stay  with 

me." 

"Nay,  little  damsel;  away  111  fly 
To  greener  fields  and  warmer  sky ; 
When  spring  returns  with  pattering 

rain, 
You'll  hear  my  mercy  song  again." 

1  Little  bird  !  little  bird!  who'll  guide 

thee 
Over  the  hills  and  over  the  sea? 
Foolish  one!    come  in  the  house  to 

stay, 
For   I'm  very  sure  you'll  lose  your 

way." 


"Ah   no,  little  maiden!   God  guides 

me 
Over  the  hills  and  over  the  sea; 
I  will  be  free  as  the  rushing  air, 
And  sing  of  sunshine  everywhere." 

Lydia  Maria  Child. 


THE  BIRD  AND  THE  MAID. 

There  sat  a  bird  on  the  elder-bush 
One  beauteous  morn  in  May, 

And  a  little  girl  'neath  the  elder-bush, 
That  beauteous  morn  in  May. 

The  bird  was  still  while  the  maiden 
sang, 

And  when  she  had  done  his  song  out- 
rang  ; 

And  thus  in  the  rays  of  the  bright 
spring  sun 

The  maid  and  the  bird  sang  on  and 
on, 
That  beauteous  morn  in  May. 

And  what,  I  pray,  sang  the  bright  bird 
there, 
That  beauteous  morn  in  May? 
And  what  was  the  song  of  the  maiden 
fair, 
That  beauteous  morn  in  May  ? 

They   were   smging   their  thanks   to 

God  above 
For  the  bounteous  gifts  of  His  price- 
less love. 

Oh,  such  songs  of  praise 
Should  be  sung  always, 
Each  beauteous  morn  in  May. 

A  BIRD'S-EYE  VIEW. 

Quoth  the  boy :  "I'll  climb  that  tree, 
And  bring  down  a  nest  I  know." 

Quoth  the  girl :  "  I  will  not  see 
Little  birds  defrauded  so ! 


ANIMALS  AMD    BIRDS. 


231 


Cowardly  their  nests  to  take, 
And  their  little  hearts  to  break. 

And  their  little  nests  to  steal. 
Leave  them  happy  for  my  sake; 

Surely  little  birds  can  feel !" 

Quoth  the  boy  :  "  My  senses  whirl 

Until  now  I  never  heard 
Of  the  wisdom  of  a  girl 

Or  the  feelings  of  a  bird  ! 
Pretty  Mrs.  Solomon, 
Tell  me  what  you  reckon  on 

When  you  prate  in  such  a  strain ; 
If  I  wring  their  necks  anon, 

Certainly  they  might  feel — pain."1 

Quoth  the  girl :  "  I  watch  them  talk, 

Making  love  and  making  fun, 
In  the  pretty  ash  tree  walk, 

When  my  daily  task  is  done : 
In  their  little  eyes  I  find 
They  are  very  fond  and  kind. 

Every  change  of  song  or  voice 
Plainly  proveth  to  my  mind 

They  can  suffer  and  rejoiced' 

And  the  little  Robin-bird 

(Nice    brown    back    and    crimson 
breast ) 
All  the  conversation  heard. 

Sitting  trembling  in  his  nest. 
"What  a  world,*'  he  cried.  "  of  bliss — 
Full  of  birds  and  girls — were  this  ! 

Blithe  we'd  answer  to  their  call ; 
But  a  great  mistake  it  is 

Boys  were  ever  made  at  all." 

BIRDS'  NESTS. 
The  skylark's  nest  among  the  grass 

And  waving  corn  is  found  ; 
The  robin's  on  a  shady  bank, 

With  oak-leaves  strewed  around. 

The  wren  builds  in  an  ivied  thorn 
Or  old  and  ruined  wall : 


The  mossy  nest,  so  covered  in, 
You  scarce  can  see  at  all. 

The  martins  build  their  nests  of  clay 
In  rows  beneath  the  eaves  j 

The  silvery  lichens,  moss,  and  hair 
The  chaffinch  interweaves. 

The  cuckoo  makes  no  nest  at  all. 

But  through  the  wood  she  strays 
Until  she-finds  one  snug  and  warm. 

And  there  her  eggs  she  lays. 

The  sparrow  has  a  nest  of  ha}*, 
With  feathers  warmly  lined ; 

The  ring-dove's  careless  nest  of  sticks 
On  lofty  trees  we  find. 

Rooks  build  together  in  a  wood, 

And  often  disagree ; 
The  owl  will  build  inside  a  barn 
Or  in  a  hollow  tree. 

The  blackbird's  nest  of  grass  and  mud 
In  bush  and  bank  is  found; 

The  lapwing's  darkly-spotted  eggs 
Are  laid  upon  the  ground. 

The  magpie's  nest  is  made  with  thorns 

In  leafless  tree  or  hedge ; 
The  wild-duck  and  the  water-hen 

Build  bv  the  water's  edse. 


232 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


Birds  build  their  nests  from  year  to 
year 

According  to  their  kind — 
S  line  very  neat  and  beautiful ; 

Some  simpler  ones  we  find. 


The  habits  of  each  little  bird, 

And  all  its  patient  skill, 
Are  surely  taught  by  God  Himself, 

And  ordered  by  His  will. 


M.  S.  C. 


BABY-BIRDS. 
Last  year  a  linnet's  brood  I  bought, 

Just  taken  from  the  spray, 
To    save    them    from   their    captors' 
hands, 
Who  tortured  them  with  play. 

Upon  the  lawn  I  placed  my  charge, 
Screened  from  the  noontide  glare, 

And  far  from  cats ;  but  ere  an  hour 
Tbe  mother  found  them  there. 

Day  after  day,  and  hour  by  hour, 
To  feed  her  young  she  sped, 

Placed  every  sunny  morn  by  me 
Beneath  an  arbory  shed. 


They  lived,  and  feathers  grew  apace 
Where  down  was  spread  before, 

Till    one    bright    morn    they   disap- 
peared— 
I  saw  my  pets  no  more. 

Think  if  that  tender  mother-bird 

Felt  not  a  parent's  pain, 
Would  she  have  sought  and  labored 
thus 

Her  lost  ones  to  regain  ? 

All  feel  that  crawl,  or  walk,  or  swim, 

Or  poise  the  busy  wing : 
Then  seek  not  pleasure  in  the  pain 

Of  any  living  thing. 


ANIMALS   AJVD    BIRDS. 


233 


j^N****- 


Not  I,"  said  the  cow,  "  Moo-oo ! 
Such  a  thing  I'd  never  do. 
I  gave  you  a  wis}/  of  hay, 
But  didn't  take  your  nest  away. 
Not  I,"  said  the  cow,  "  Moo-oo ! 
Such  a  thing  I'd  never  do." 


'To-whit!  to-whit!  to-whee  ! 
Will  you  listen  to  me  ? 
Who  stole  four  eggs  I  laid, 
And  the  nice  nest  I  made  ?" 

Bob-o-link !     Bob-o-link ! 
Now  what  do  you  think  ? 
Who  stole  a  nest  away 
From  the  plum  tree  to-day  ?" 

"  Not  I,"  said  the  dog,  "  Bow,  wow  ! 
I  would  not  be  so  mean,  I  vow  ! 
I  gave  hairs  the  nest  to  make, 
But  the  nest  I  did  not  take. 
Not  I,"  said  the  dog,  "  Bow,  wow ! 
I  would  not  be  so  mean,  I  vow !" 

"To-whit !  to-whit !  to-whee ! 
Will  you  listen  to  me  ? 


234 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY 


Who  stole  four  eggs  I  laid, 
And  the  nice  nest  I  made?" 

Bob-o-link !    Bob-o-link ! 
Now  what  do  you  think? 
Who  stole  a  nest  away 
From  the  plum  tree  to-day  ?" 

Coo,  coo  !  coo,  coo  !  coo,  coo  ! 
Let  me  speak  a  word  too  ; 
Who  stole  that  pretty  nest 
From  little  Yellow-breast?" 

"  Not  I,"  said  the  sheep ;  "  oh  no ! 
I  wouldn't  treat  a  poor  bird  so  ; 
I  gave  wool  the  nest  to  line, 
But  the  nest  was  none  of  mine. 
Baa  !  baa !"  saidthe sheep ; "  oh  no, 
I  wouldn't  treat  a  poor  bird  so." 

;  To-whit !  to- whit !  to-whee  ! 
Will  you  listen  to  me  ? 
Who  stole  four  eggs  I  laid, 
And  the  nice  nest  I  made?" 

;  Bob-o-link  !     Bob-o-link ! 
Now  what  do  you  think  ? 
Who  stole  a  nest  away 
From  the  plum  tree  to-day  ?" 

:  Coo,  coo !  coo,  coo  !  coo,  coo  ! 
Let  me  speak  a  word  too ; 
Who  stole  that  pretty  nest 
From  little  Yellow-breast  ?" 

;  Caw !  caw !"  cried  the  crow, 
;  I  should  like  to  know 

What  thief  took  away 

A  bird's  nest  to-day  ?" 

"  Cluck !  cluck  !"  said  the  hen  ; 

"  Don't  ask  me  again. 
Why,  I  haven't  a  chick 
That  would  do  such  a  trick. 
We  all  gave  her  a  feather.. 
And  she  wove  them  together ; 
I'd  scorn  to  intrude 
On  her  and  her  brood. 


Cluck  !  cluck  !"  said  the  hen  ; 
"  Don't  ask  me  again." 
"  Chirr-a- whirr !  chirr-a- whirr ! 
We  will  make  a  great  stir ! 
Let  us  find  out  his  name, 
And  all  cry  'for  shame  !' " 

"  I  would  not  rob  a  bird," 

Said  little  Mary  Green  ; 
"  I  think  I  never  heard 

Of  anything  so  mean." 
"'Tis  very  cruel,  too," 

Said  little  Alice  Neal ; 
"  I  wonder  if  he  knew 

How  sad  the  bird  would  feel  ?" 

A  little  boy  hung  down  his  head, 
And  went  and  hid  behind  the  bed ; 
For  he  stole  that  pretty  nest 
From  poor  little  Yellow-breast : 
And  he  felt  so  full  of  shame 
He  didn't  like  to  tell  his  name. 

Lydia  Maria  Child. 

ANSWER  TO  A  CHILD'S  QUESTION. 
Do  you  ask  what  the  birds  say  ?     The 

sparrow,  the  dove, 
The  linnet,  and  thrush,  say  "  I  love  and 

I  love!" 
In  the  winter  they're  silent,  the  wind 

is  so  strong ; 
What  it  says  I  don't  know,  but  it  sings 

a  loud  song. 
But  green  leaves   and  blossoms  and 

sunny  warm  weather, 
And    singing    and   loving,    all    come 

back  together. 
But  the  lark  is  so  brimful  of  gladness 

and  love, 
The  green  fields  below  him,  the  blue 

sky  above, 
That  he  sings  and  he  sings,  and  for 

ever  sings  he, 
"  I  love  my  love,  and  my  love  loves  me." 

Samuel  T.  Coleridge. 


ANIMALS   AND    BIRDS. 


235 


THE  LITTLE  BIRD'S  COMPLAINT  TO    I  Why  must  I  hear,  in  summer  evenings 

HIS  MISTRESS.  "fine, 

Here  in   this  wiry   prison,  where    I        A  thousand  happier  birds  in  merry 
sing,  choirs, 

And  think  of  sweet  green  woods,    And  I,  poor  lonely  I,  in  grief  repine. 


and  long  to  fly, 
Unable  once  to  try  my  useless  wing, 
Or  wave   my  feathers  in  the  clear 
blue  sky, 


Caged  by  these  wooden  walls  and 
golden  wires  ? 


Say   not   the   tuneful    notes   I    daily 
pour 

Dav  after  day  the  selfsame  things  I  !      Al'e  songs  of  pleasure,  from  a  heart 

"  see_       "  at  ease  ;— 

The   cold  white   ceiling,   and    this  !  The3'  are  but  waitings  at  my  prison- 
dreary  house;  clooi, 
Ah!   how*  unlike  my  healthy  native        Incessant  cries   to   taste    the  .open 


tree, 
Rocked  by  the  winds  that  whistled 
through  the  boughs  ! 

Mild     spring    returning    strews     the 
ground  with  flowers, 
And  hangs  sweet  May-buds  on  the 
hedges  gay, 
But   no    kind    sunshine    cheers    my 
gloomy  hours, 
Nor  kind  companion  twitters  on  the 
spray. 

Oh,  how  I  long  to  stretch  my  listless 
wings, 
And  fly  away  as  far  as  eye  can  see  ! 
And  from  the  topmost  bough,  where 
Robin  sings, 
Pour  my   wild    songs,   and   be    as 
blithe  as  he. 

Why    was    I  taken  from  the  waving 
nest, 
From   flowery   fields,   wide  woods, 
and  hedges  green  ; 
Torn  from  my  tender  mother's  downy 
breast, 
In  this  sad  prison-house  to  die  un- 
seen ? 


breeze ! 

Kind    mistress,    come;    with   gentle. 
pitying  hand, 
Unbar  that  curious  grate,  and   set 
me  free ; 
Then   on    the   whitethorn    bush    I'll 
take  my  stand, 
And  sing  sweet  songs  to  freedom 
and  to  thee. 

Jase  Tatlor. 

THE  MISTRESS'S  REPLY  TO  HER  LIT- 
TLE BIRD. 

Dear  little  bird,  don't  make  this  pit- 
eous cry, 
My  heart  will  break   to   hear  thee 
thus  complain ; 
Gladly,  dear  little  bird,  I'd  let  thee  fly. 
If  that  were   likely  to  relieve   thy 
pain. 

Sad  was  the  boy  that  climbed  the  tree 
so  high, 
And  took  thee  bare  and  shivering 
from  thy  nest : 
But  no,  dear  little  bird,  it  was  not  I : 
There's  more  of  soft  compassion  in 
my  breast. 


236 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


But  when  I  saw  thee  gasping  wide  for 
breath. 
Without  one  feather  on  thy  callow 
skin, 
I  begged  the  cruel  boy  to  spare  thy 
death, 
Paid  for  thylittle  life,and  took  thee  in. 

Fondly  I  fed  thee  with  the  tenderest 
care, 
And   filled   thy   gaping  beak  with 
nicest  food  ; 
Gave  thee  new  bread  and  butter  from 
my  share, 
And  then  with  chickweed  green  thy 
dwelling  strewed. 

Soon  downy  feathers  dressed  thy  naked 
wing, 
Smoothed  by  thy  little  beak  with 
beauish  care ; 
And  many  a  summer's  evening  wouldst 
thou  sing, 
And  hop  from  perch  to  perch  with 
merry  air. 


But  if  I  now  should  loose  thy  prison- 
door, 
And  let  thee  out  into  the  world  so 
wide, 
Unused  to  such  a  wondrous  placebefore, 
Thou'dst  want  some  friendly  shelter 
where  to  hide. 

Thy   brother  birds   would   peck   thy 
little  eyes, 
And  fright  the  stranger  from  their 
woods  away ; 
Fierce  hawks  would  chase  thee  tremb- 
ling through  the  skies, 
Or  crouching  Pussy  mark  thee  for 
her  prey. 

Sad,  on  the  lonely  blackthorn  wouldst 
thou  sit, 
Thy  mournful  song  unpitied  and  un- 
heard ; 
And  when  the  wintry  wind  and  driv- 
ing sleet 
Came  sweeping  o'er,  they'd  kill  my 
pretty  bird. 


ANIMALS   AND    BIRDS. 


237 


Then  do  not  pine,  my  favorite,  to  be  I  Pretty  bird,  you  do  not  know 


free ; 
Plume  up  thy  wings,  and  clear  that 

sullen  eye  ; 
I  would  not  take  thee  from  thy  native 

tree, 
But  now  'twould  kill  thee  soon  to 

let  thee  fly. 

Jane  Taylor. 

THE  BIRD'S  NEST. 
Oh,  who  would  rob  the  wee  bird's  nest, 

That  sings  so  sweet  and  clear, 
That  builds  for  its  young  a  cozy  house 

In  the  spring-time  of  the  year  ; 
That  feeds  the  gaping  birdies  all, 

And  keeps  them  from  the  rain ; 
Oh,  who  would  rob  the  wee  bird's  nest, 

And  give  its  bosom  pain  ? 

I  would  not  harm  the  linnet's  nest, 

That  whistles  on  the  spray  ; 
I  would  not  rob  the  pleasant  lark. 

That  sings  at  break  of  day ; 
I  would  not  rob  the  nightingale, 

That  chants  so  sweet  at  e'en  ; 
Nor  yet  would  I  sweet  Jenny  Wren, 

Within  her  bower  of  green. 

For  birdies  are  like  bairnies 

That  dance  upon  the  lea, 
And  they  will  not  sing  in  cages 

So  sweet  as  in  the  tree. 
They're  just  like  bonnie  bairnies 

That  mothers  love  so  well, 
And  cruel,  cruel  is  the  heart 

That  would  their  treasures  steal. 

Alexander  Smart. 

THE  ROBIN. 
Pretty  Robin,  do  not  go, 

For  I  love  to  have  you  near ; 
Stay  among  the  shady  leaves, 

Sing  your  songs  so  sweet  and  clear. 


How  each  morning  in  the  spring 
To  my  window  I  would  go, 

Hoping  I  might  hear  you  sing. 

And  when,  one  delightful  morn, 
First  I  caught  your  cheerful  strain. 

Like  some  long-lost  friend  you  seemed, 
To  our  home  come  back  again. 

Pleasant  stories  then  you  told 
Of  that  joyous  southern  clime, 

Where  the  roses  do  not  fade, 
And  'tis  one  long  summer-time. 

Then  I  could  not  help  but  wish 
I  had  wings  to  fly  like  you, 

That  beneath  those  pleasant  skies 
I  might  go  and  warble  too. 

Did  you  know,  my  little  pet, 
That  the  nice  tall  cherry  tree, 

Where  each  morning  you  would  sing, 
Father  planted  there  for  me  ? 

Many  a  hearty  feast  you  made 
Where  my  finest  cherries  grew  ; 

Do  not  think  I  mean  to  chide — 
You  were  very  welcome  too. 

But,  if  I  had  loved  you  less, 

You  might  now  be  in  your  grave  ; 

I  preferred  that  you  should  live, 
Rather  than  my  fruit  to  save. 

Do  you  know  that  soon  again 

Will  the  frost  and  snow  come  on  ? 

Soon  the  leaves  will  fall,  and  then 
From  these  woods  you  will  be  gone. 

He  who  made  your  lovely  form 
Gave  your  life  so  bright  and  gay, 

Tells  you  when  'tis  time  to  go, 
And  directs  you  on  your  way. 

Susan  Jewett. 


238 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


"WHAT  IS  THAT,  MOTHER?" 

"What  is  that,  mother?" 
The  lark,  my  child. 
The  morn  has  but  just  looked  out  and 

smiled 
When  lie  starts  from  his  humble  grassy 

nest, 
And  is  up  and  away,  with  the  dew  on 

his  breast, 
And  a  hymn  in  his  heart,  to  yon  pure 

bright  sphere, 
To  warble  it  out  in  his  Maker's  ear. 


Boy,  may  the  eagle's  flight  ever  be 

thine — 
Onward  and  upward,  and  true  to  the 

line  ! 

"  What  is  that,  mother?" 

The  swan,  my  love  ; 

He  is  floating  down  from  his  native 

grove. 
No  loved  one  now,  no  nestling  nigh, 
He  is  floating  down  by  himself  to  die : 
Death  darkens  his  eye  and  unplumes 


his  wings, 

Ever,  my  child,  be  thy   morns   first    ^7  ,    ,,  ,     ,  •     ,,      -,     ,  , 

,'      J  J  i  et  the  sweetest  song  is  the  last  he 


lays 


sings. 


Tuned,  like  the  lark's,  to  thy  Maker's    T  •  °  ■,  ■■,  -,    ,,    ,      u        -,     ,, 

J  Live   so,  my  child,  that  when  death 


praise 


shall  come, 
Swan-like  and  sweet  it  may  waft  thee 
home. 

George  Washington  Doane. 


"  What  is  that,  mother?" 
The  dove,  my  son  ; 
And    that    low,   sweet    voice,  like   a 

widow's  moan, 
Is  flowing  out  from  her  gentle  breast, 
Constant    and  pure  by  that    lonely    So  now,  pretty  Robin,  you've  come  to 


THE  BOY  AND  THE  ROBIN. 


nest, 


my  door, 
I  wonder    you    never   have  ventured 
before ! 


As  the  wave  is  poured  from  some  crys- 

-c,      i        v '.      .    j  >         -i  'Tis  likelv  you  thought  I  would   do 

*or  her  distant  dear  ones  quick  re-  ,  J   J     . 


turn. 


you  some  harm, 


,     ,,        vl     .,      ,  But  pray,  sir,  what  cause  could  there 
Ever,  my  son,  be  thou  like  the  dove —  *     Z'      ' 

T      p  .      -,  T  .  £  ■ ,  t  n  -,  ,      ,  be  lor  alarm  ? 

In  iriendship  as  laithlul,  as  constant 

in  love. 


"  What  is  that,  mother?" 
The  eagle,  boy, 
Proudly  careering  his  course  with  joy, 
Firm  on  his  own  mountain  vigor  re- 
lying, 
Breasting  the  dark  storm,  the  red  bolt  know 

defying ; 
His  wing  on  the  wind,  and  his  eye  on  ;  You  think  I   have  never  discovered 


You  seem  to  be  timid — I'd  like  to  know 

why ; 
Did  I  ever  hurt  you  ?  what  makes  you 

so  shy  ? 
You  shrewd  little  rogue !  I've  a  mind, 

ere  you  go, 
To  tell  you  a  thing  it  concerns  you  to 


the  sun, 


your  nest ; 


He  swerves  not  a  hair,  but  bears  on-  i  'Tis  hid  pretty  snugly,  that  must  be 


ward,  right  on. 


confessed 


ANIMALS   AND    BIRDS. 


239 


Ha  !  ha !  how  the  boughs  are  entwined 

all  around  ! 
No  wonder  you  thought  it  would  never 

be  found. 

You're  as  cunning  a  rogue  as  ever  I 
knew ; 

And  yet — ha!  ha!  ha! — I'm  as  cun- 
ning as  vou ! 


So  hop  about  pretty,  and  put  down 
your  wing, 
And  pick  up  the  crumbs,  and  don't 
mind  me ! 

Cold  winter  is  come,  but  it  will  not 
last  long, 
And  summer  we  soon  shall  be  greet- 
in  o-  • 


I  know  all  about  your  nice  home  on    Then  remember,  sweet  Robin,  to  sing 


the  tree — 
Twas  nonsense  to  try  and  conceal  it 
from  me. 


me  a  song 
In  return  for  the  breakfast  you're 
eating ! 


Easy  Poetry. 


ROBIN  REDBREAST. 


Go  home,  where  your  mate  and  your 

little  ones  dwell ; 

Though  I  know  where  they  are,  yet  I  \  n  ,,       ,      _„ 

&  '  J         l  Good-bye,  good-bye  to  summer 

never  will  tell ; 

Nobody  shall  injure  the  leaf-covered 

nest, 
For  sacred  to  me  is  the  place  of  your 

rest. 


Adieu !    for  you   want  to   be   flying 
away, 


For  summer's  nearly  done ; 
The  garden  smiling  faintly, 

Cool  breezes  in  the  sun  ; 
Our  thrushes  now  are  silent, 

Our  swallows  flown  away, 
But  Robin's  here,  in  coat  of  brown 

And  scarlet  breast-knot  gay. 


And  it  would  be  too  cruel  to  ask  you  !  Robin,  Robin  Redbreast, 


0  Robin  dear ! 
Robin  sings  so  sweetly 
In  the  falling  of  the  year. 


to  stay  ; 

But  come  in  the  morning — come  early 

and  sing ; 

You  shall  see  what  I'll  give  you,  sweet    t>  •  i  ±      -n  i        i 

.  n        „  &       -      '  Bright  yellow,  red,  and  orange, 

warbler  of  spring. 

Rev.  F.  C.  Woodworth 


COME  HERE,  LITTLE  ROBIN. 
Come  here,  little  Robin,  and  don't  be 
afraid, 
I  would  not  hurt  even  a  feather ; 


The  leaves  come  down  in  hosts ; 
The  trees  are  Indian  princes, 

But  soon  they'll  turn  to  ghosts  ! 
The  leathery  pears  and  apples 

Hang  russet  on  the  bough  ; 
It's  autumn,  autumn,  autumn  late  ; 

'Twill  soon  be  winter  now. 


Come  here,  little  Robin,  and  pick  up  <  Robin,  Robin  Redbreast, 


some  bread, 


0  Robin  dear ! 


To  feed  you  this  very  cold  weather.    And  what  will  this  poor  Robin  do, 

For  pinching  days  are  near  ? 


I   don't  mean  to  hurt  you,  you  poor 
little  thing  ! 
And  Pussy-cat  is  not  behind  me ; 


The  fireside  for  the  cricket, 

The  wheat-stack  for  the  mouse, 


240 


THE    CHILDREN'S    BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


When  trembling  night-winds  whistle 

And  moan  all  round  the  house. 
The  frosty  ways  like  iron, 

The  branches  plumed  with  snow — 
Alas !  in  winter  dead  and  dark 

Where  can  poor  Robin  go  ? 
Robin,  Robin  Redbreast, 

O  Robin  dear ! 
And  a  crumb  of  bread  for  Robin, 

His  little  heart  to  cheer. 

William  Allingham. 

THE  GOLD  ROBIN. 

A   little   gold  robin  with   very  red 

breast 
Sat  perched  on  a  tree  near  a  chick-a- 

dee's  nest. 
"  Will  you  go  and  pick  cherries,"  said 

Robin,  "  with  me  ?" 
"  I've  no  time  to  spare,"  said  the  chick- 

a-dee-dee. 

"  And  what  do  you  live  on  ?"  said 

Robin  Redbreast. 
"  The  worms  from  the  garden  ;  I  like 

them  the  best." 
"  And  where  do  you  find  them  ?    Pray 

come  and  show  me." 
"  Go  hunt  for  yourself,"  said  the  chick- 

a-dee-dee. 

"  And  where   do  you  sleep  ?"  asked 

the  robin  redbreast. 
"  High  up  in  the  tree  in   my   little 

snug  nest." 
"  Any  children  ?"  asked  Robin.     "  Ah 

yes,  I  have  three  ; 
Fine  birdies  they  are,"  said  the  chick- 

a-dee-dee. 

"  Do  you   never  get  weary  ?"  asked 

Robin  Redbreast. 
"  Yes,  often ;  but  then  I  can  lie  down 

and  rest. 


Those  three  little  birds  for  their  food 

look  to  me, 
So  I  must  work  hard,"  said  the  chick- 

a-dee-dee. 

"  But    work    is    not    pleasant,"   said 

Robin  Redbreast. 
"  Ah,   love   makes  it   pleasant ;    love 

gives  it  a  zest. 
Just  try  it :   here's  straw,  and  look  ! 

there's  a  tree ; 
Go  build  now  a  nest,"  said  the  chiek- 

a-dee-dee. 

So  off  flew  the  robin  with    very  red 

breast ; 
She  gathered  up  straws,  and  she  made 

a  nice  nest : 
She  hatched  four  young  robins.    "  Oh, 

joy  !  look  at  me  !" 
"  Now  work  and  be  glad,"  said  the 

chick-a-dee-dee. 

Home  Songs  for  our  Nestlings. 


THE  ROBIN. 

There  came  to  my  window,  one  morn- 
ing in  spring, 

A  sweet  little  robin ;  she  came  there  to 
sing ; 

The  tune  that  she  sang,  it  was  prettier 
far 

Than  ever  was  heard  on  the  flute  or 
guitar. 

Her  wings  she  was  spreading  to  soar 
far  aAvay ; 

Then  resting  a  moment,  seemed  sweet- 
ly to  say, 

"  Oh  happy,  how  happy  this  world 
seems  to  be! 

Awake,  little  girl,  and  be  happy  with 
me!" 


ANIMALS   AJVD    BIRDS. 


241 


But  just  as  she  finished  her  beautiful  |  "  Why,  I'm  sure,"  he  replied,  "  you 

cannot  guess  wrong; 

Don't  ye  know  I  am  singing  a  tem- 
perance song  ? 

4 Teetotal,'  oh!  that's  the  first  word  of 
my  lay ; 

And  then  don't  you  see  how  I  twitter 
away  ? 


A  thoughtless  young  man  with   his 

gun  came  along; 
He  killed  and  he  carried  my  robin 

away ; 
She'll  never  more  sing  at  the  break  of 

the  day ! 

THE  ROBIN'S  SONG. 
I  asked  a  sweet  robin,  one  morning  in 

May, 
Who  sung  in  the  apple  tree  over  the 

way, 
What  it  was  he  was  singing  so  sweetly 

about, 
For  I'd  tried  a  long  while,  and  could 

not  find  out. 


"  'Tis  because  I  have  just  dipped  my 

back  in  the  spring, 
And  brushed  the  fair  face  of  the  lake 

with  my  wing ; 
Cold  water!  cold  water!   yes,  that  is 

my  song, 
And  I  love  to  keep  singing  it  all  the 

day  long !" 


MY  NEIGHBORS. 
Up  in  the  apple  tree  over  the  way 
Robin,  my  neighbor,  is  busy  all  day. 
When  the  sweet  morn  is  beginning  to 

gleam, 
Through  the  white  blossoms  he  flits 

like  a  dream, 
Trills  a  wild  carol,  so  mellow  and  clear ; 
Through  all  my  dreaming  it  streams 

on  my  ear. 

16 


Robin's    my    gardener,    honest    and 

bold, 
Robin's  my  minstrel,  unpaid  by  mv 

Kold. 


Under  my  window,  where  roses  en- 
twine. 

Lives  the  brown  Sparrow,  a  neighbor 
of  mine. 


242 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF    POETRY. 


Close  by  the  lattice,  among  the  green 

boughs, 
Rocks,  like  a  cradle,  her  snug  little 

house. 
Up  in  my   face,   with   her  innocent 

eyes, 
Looks   ray  wee  neighbor  with  timid 

surprise ; 
Nestles  a  little,  as  if  she  would  say, 
"  Touch   but  a  feather,   I'm  up  and 

away 


v  !" 


Swallows    are   twittering    under    my 

eaves, 
Thrushes  are  singing  among  the  green 

leaves, 
Blackbirds  are  piping  a  musical  lay, 
Bees  in  the  clover  are  droning  all  day. 
Blithe  little  neighbors !  so  merry  and 

free, 
Sparrow  and  Robin  and  Swallow  and 

Bee! 
One  loving  Father  keeps  watch  over 

all, 
Caring   alike   for   the   great  and   the 

small. 

Emily  Huntington  Miller. 


REDBREAST  CHASING  THE  BUTTER- 
FLY. 

Art  thou  the  bird  whom  man  loves 

best, 
The  pious  bird  with  the  scarlet  breast, 

Our  little  English  robin — 
The  bird  that  comes  about  our  doors 
Wben  autumn  winds  are  sobbing? 
Art  thou  the  Peter  of  Norway  boors? 

Their  Thomas  in  Finland, 

And  Russia  far  inland  ? 
The  bird,  who  by  some  name  or  other 
All   men  who   know  thee  call   their 

brother — 


The  darling  of  children  and  men  ? 
Could  Father  Adam  open  his  eyes 
And  see  this  sight  beneath  the  skies, 

He'd  wish  to  close  them  again. 
If  the  butterfly  knew  but  his  friend, 
Hither  his  flight  he  would  bend, 
And  find  his  way  to  me, 
Under  the  branches  of  the  tree. 
In  and  out  he  darts  about ; 

Can  this  be  the  bird  to  man  so  good, 
That,  after  their  bewildering, 
Covered  with  leaves  the  little  children 

So  painfully  in  the  wood  ? 
What  ailed   thee,   Robin,   that  thou 
couldst  pursue 

A  beautiful  creature 

That  is  gentle  b}^  nature? 
Beneath  the  summer  sky 
From  flower  to  flower  let  him  fly  ; 

'Tis  all  that  he  wishes  to  do. 
The  cheerer,  thou,  of  our  indoor  sad- 
ness, 
He  is  the  friend  of  our  summer  glad- 
ness. 

What  hinders,  then,  that  ye  should 
be 
Playmates  in  the  sunny  weather, 
And  fly  about  in  the  air  together  ? 
His  beautiful  wings   in  crimson  are 
drest, 

A  crimson  as  bright  as  thine  own ; 
If  Thou  wouldst  be  happy  in  thy  nest, 
0  pious  bird !  whom  man  loves  best, 

Love  him,  or  leave  him  alone. 

William  Wordsworth. 

SWALLOW  AND  REDBREAST. 
The  swallows  at  the  close  of  day, 
When  autumn  shone  writh  fainter  ray, 
Around  the  chimney  circling  flew, 
Ere  yet  they  bade  a  long  adieu 
To  climes  where  soon  the  winter  drear 
Should  close  the  unrejoicing  year. 


ANIMALS   AMD    BIRDS. 


24:i 


Now  with  swift  wing  they  skim  aloof, 
Now  settle  on  the  crowded  roof, 
As  counsel  and  advice  to  take 
Ere  they  the  chilly  North  forsake ; 
Then  one.  disdainful,  turned  his  eye 
Upon  a  redbreast  twittering  nigh. 
And  thus  began  with  taunting  scorn : 
"  Thou  household  imp,  obscure,  for- 
lorn ! 
Through  the  deep  winter's  dreary  day 
Here,  dull  and  shivering,  shalt  thou 

stay. 
Whilst  we,  who  make  the  world  our 

home. 
To  softer  climes  impatient  roam. 
Where  summer  still  on  some  green  isle 
Rests,    with    her    sweet    and    lovely 

smile ; 
Thus,  speeding  far  and  far  away, 
We  leave  behind  the  shortening  day/' 

"  'Tis   true,"  the   redbreast  answered 

meek, 
"  No  other  scenes  I  ask  or  seek ; 
To  every  change  alike  resigned, 
I  fear  not  the  cold  winter's  wind. 
When  spring  returns,  the  circling  year 
Shall  find  me  still  contented  here ; 
But  whilst  my  warm  affections  rest 
Within  the  circle  of  my  nest,  v 
I  learn  to  pity  those  that  roam, 
And  love  the  more  my  humble  home.'' 

W.  L.  Bowles. 

MARY'S  PET. 

Cousin  Jack,  the  sailor  lad. 

Gave  to  sister  Mary, 
Just  before  he  went  away, 

Such  a  sweet  canary  ! 
You  should  see  the  tiny  thing 

Trim  its  wings  so  neatly ; 
You  should  hear  it  sing  a  song 

Prettily  and  sweetly. 


And  so  tame  it  is  that  she 

In  her  hand  can  hold  it ; 
Yesterday  I'm  sure  it  did 

Everything  she  told  it — 
Pecked  the  crumbs  from  out  her  mouth, 

Hopped  upon  her  shoulder, 
Back  upon  her  hand  again ; 

Never  bird  was  bolder. 

And  whenever  Mary  speaks, 

How  its  eyes  will  glisten 
As  it  cocks  its  head  aside 

Saucily  to  listen ! 
And  she  tells  it  funny  tales — 

Calls  it  pretty  Fairy ; 
Wonder  if  it  understands 

All  that's  said  by  Mary  ? 

Every  morning,  too,  it  sings 

Just  as  I  am  waking, 
And  ma  tells  me  it  begins 

Oft  when  day  is  breaking. 


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THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


Don't  I  like  to  hear  it  sing, 

Pretty  little  fellow ! 
With  its  bright  and  bead-like  eyes, 

And  its  coat  of  yellow  ? 

And  so  fond  it  grows  of  me ! 

You  should  only  hear  it — 
How  it  calls  out,  "  Weet,  weet,  weet!" 

If  I  but  go  near  it : 
Dickie's  fond  of  sugar  too — 

Oh,  so  pleased  to  get  it ! 
It  would  eat  a  lump,  I  know. 

If  we'd  only  let  it. 

Mary  sometimes  loves  to  sit, 

As  the  evening  closes, 
Close  beside  the  garden-path, 

Underneath  the  roses ; 
And  beside  the  pretty  flowers 

Late  she  loves  to  linger, 
Talking  to  her  little  pet 

Seated  on  her  finger. 

When  mamma  and  Mary  sit 

In  the  parlor  sewing, 
How  it  watches  all  they  do, 

Looking  sly  and  knowing  ! 
"  Saucy  Dick  !"  mamma  will  say  ; 

When  its  name  she  utters 
Down  upon  her  head  so  dear 

Jauntily  it  nutters. 

Jumps  upon  the  table,  too — 

Never  thinks  of  asking ; 
Never  fears  the  pussy-cat 

In  the  sunshine  basking. 
Into  Mary's  work-box  next 

Merrily  it  dances ; 
How  we  laugh,  and  love  to  see 

All  its  ways  and  fancies ! 

On  the  bough  beside  the  sill 

Oft  it's  found  by  Mary ; 
There  it  sits  until  she  calls, 

"  Time  for  dinner,  Fairy." 


Glad  am  I  that  sister  loves 

Fairy  Dick  sincerely : 
I  am  sure  that  little  Dick 

Loves  her  very  dearly. 

Who  could  wrong  a  little  bird  ? 

Who  could  use  it  badly  ? 
I  have  heard  of  naughty  men 

Who  have  plagued  them  sadly. 
If  they  had  a  little  child, 

Wonder  how  they'd  like  it 
If  Dick  were  to  shoot  at  it 

With  a  gun,  and  strike  it? 

Cousin  Jack  has  promised  me, 

When  he  comes,  a  polly — 
One  that  talks  and  whistles  too ; 

Oh  !  won't  that  be  jolly  ? 
I'll  be  kind  and  good  to  it, 

Never  plague  or  tease  it, 
But  do  everything  that's  right — 

All  I  can  to  please  it. 

Matthias  Barr. 

THE  SWEETS  OF  LIBERTY. 

A  generous  tar,  who  long  had  been 

In  foreign  prison  pent, 
Released  at  length,  returned  again, 

Brimful  of  merriment. 

A  man  who  had  some  birds  to  sell 
Was  just  then  passing  by ; 

Jack  glanced   at  the  poor  fluttering 
things 
With  sorrowing,  pitying  eye. 

He  paused  amid  the  gaping  throng 

Before  the  seller's  stall : 
"  Now,  hark  ye,  friend,  just  name  your 
price 

For  birds,  and  cage,  and  all." 

The  price  was  named,  the  sum  was 
paid ; 
The  sailor  seized  the  prize, 


ANIMALS   AND    BIRDS. 


245 


And  quickly  from  the  opened  door 
A  young  canary  flies. 

"  Stop!"  cried  the  bird-seller,  amazed  ; 

"  They're  all  escaping  fast." 
"  That's  right,"  said  Jack,  and  held  the 
door 

Till  all  were  gone  at  last. 

"  Had  you,"  said  Jack,  "  been  doomed, 
like  me, 

In  prison  long  to  lie, 
You'd  better  understand,  my  friend, 

The  sweets  of  liberty." 


SONG. 

I   had  a  dove,  and   the   sweet   dove 

died; 
And  I  have  thought  it  died  of  griev- 
ing: 
Oh,  what  could  it  grieve  for?     Its  feet 

were  tied 
With   a  silken   thread  of  my  own 

hand's  weaving ; 
Sweet  little  red  feet !  why  should  you 

die — 
Why  would  you  leave  me,  sweet  bird  ! 

why  ? 
Yon  lived  alone  in  the  forest  tree — 
Why,  pretty  thing!    would   you  not 

live  with  me  ? 
I  kissed  you  oft  and  gave  you  white 

peas; 
Why  not  live  sweetly,  as  in  the  green 

trees  ? 

John  Keats. 

THE  TURTLE-DOVE'S  NEST. 
Very  high  in  the  pine  tree 

The  little  turtle-dove 
Made  a  pretty  nursery, 

To  please  her  little  love. 


She  was  gentle,  she  was  soft, 

And  her  large  dark  eye 
Often  turned  to  her  mate, 

Who  was  sitting  close  by. 

"Coo!"  said  the  turtle-dove, 

"  Coo  !"  said  she. 
"  Oh,  I  love  thee !"  said  the  turtle-dove. 

"And  I  love  thee." 
In  the  long  shady  branches 

Of  the  dark  pine  tree 
How  happy  were  the  doves 

In  their  little  nursery  ! 

The  young  turtle-doves 

Never  quarrelled  in  their  nest, 
For  they  dearly  loved  each  other, 

Though    they   loved   their   mother 
best. 
"  Coo  !"  said  the  little  doves. 

"Coo!"  said  she. 
And  they  played  together  kindly 

In  the  dark  pine  tree. 

In  this  nursery  of  yours, 

Little  sister,  little  brother, 
Like  the  turtle-dove's  nest, 

Do  you  love  one  another? 
Are  you  kind,  are  you  gentle, 

As  children  ought  to  be  ? 
Then  the  happiest  of  nests 

Is  your  own  nursery. 

Aunt  Effie's  Rhymes. 


THE  BLUE-BIRD. 

I  know  the  song  that  the  blue-bird  is 

singing 
Out   in   the  apple  tree,  where  he  is 

swinging. 
Brave  little  fellow !  the  skies  may  be 

dreary, — 
Nothing  cares  he  while  his  heart  is  so 

cheery. 


246 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


Hark  !  how  the  music  leaps  out  from 

his  throat ! 
Hark !    was    there   ever   so   merry   a 

note  ? 
Listen  a  while,  and  you'll  hear  what 

he's  saying, 
Up  in  the  apple  tree  swinging  and 

swaying : 

"  Dear  little  blossoms  down  under  the 

snow, 
You  must  be  weary  of  winter,  I  know ; 
Hark  while  I  sing  you  a  message  of 

cheer ! 
Summer  is  coming,  and  spring-time  is 

here  ! 

"  Little  white  snowdrop,  I  pray  you 

arise ; 
Bright    yellow     crocus,    come     open 

your  eyes ; 
Sweet  little  violets,  hid  from  the  cold, 
Put  on  your  mantles  of  purple  and 

gold; 
Daffodils !     daffodils !     say,    do    you 

hear  ? — 
Summer  is  coming!  and  spring-time 

is  here !" 

Emily  Huntington  Miller. 


ROBERT  OF  LINCOLN. 

Merrily  swinging  on  brier  and  weed, 
Near  to  the  nest  of  his  little  dame, 
Over  the  mountain-side  or  mead, 
Robert   of    Lincoln    is    telling   his 
name : 

Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 
Spink,  spank,  spink, 
Snu<r  and  safe  is  that  nest  of  ours, 
Hidden  among  the  summer  flowers. 
Chee,  chee,  chee. 


Robert  of  Lincoln  is  gayly  dressed, 
Wearing  a  bright    black   wedding- 
coat  ; 
White   are   his  shoulders,  and  white 
his  crest ; 
Hear  him  call  in  his  merry  note, 
Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 
Spink,  spank,  spink, 
Look  what  a  nice  new  coat  is  mine! 
Sure  there  was  never  a  bird  so  fine. 
Chee,  chee,  chee. 

Robert  of  Lincoln's  Quaker  wife, 
Pretty  and  quiet,  with  plain  brown 
wings, 
Passing  at  home  a  patient  life, 

Broods  in  the  grass  while  her  hus- 
band sings, 

Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 
Spink,  spank,  spink, 
Brood,  kind  creature !  you  need  not 

fear 
Thieves  and  robbers  while  I  am  here. 
Chee,  chee,  chee. 

Modest  and  shy  as  a  nun  is  she ; 

One  weak  chirp  is  her  only  note  ; 
Braggart,  and  prince  of  braggarts,  is  he, 
Pouring  boasts  from  his  little  throat, 
Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 
Spink,  spank,  spink, 
Never  was  I  afraid  of  man  ; 
Catch  me,  cowardly  knaves,  if  you  can ! 
Chee,  chee,  chee. 

Six  white  eggs  on  a  bed  of  hay, 

Flecked  with  purple,  a  pretty  sight ! 
There,  as  the  mother  sits  all  day, 
Robert  is  singing  with  all  his  might, 
Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 
Spink,  spank,  spink, 
Nice  good  wife  that  never  goes  out, 
Keeping  house  while  I  frolic  about ! 
Chee,  chee,  chee. 


ANIMALS   AND    BIRDS. 


247 


Soon    as    the    little    ones    chip    the 
shell, 
Six    wide    mouths    are    open     for 
food; 
Robert  of  Lincoln  bestirs  him  well, 
Gathering    seeds    for    the    hungry 
brood  : 

Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 
Spink,  spank,  spink, 
This  new  life  is  likely  to  be 
Hard  for  a  gay  young  fellow  like  me. 
Chee,  chee,  chee. 

Robert  of  Lincoln  at  length  is  made 
Sober  with  work   and   silent   with 
care ; 
Off  is  his  holiday  garment  laid, 
Half  forgotten  that  meny  air, 
Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 
Spink,  spank,  spink, 
Nobody  knows,  but  my  mate  and  I, 
Where  our  nest  and  our  nestlings  lie. 
Chee,  chee,  chee. 

Summer    wanes;     the    children    are 
grown ; 
Fun  and  frolic  no  more  he  knows  ; 
Robert  of  Lincoln's  a  humdrum  crone ; 
Off  he  flies,  and  we  sing  as  he  goes, 
Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 
Spink,  spank,  spink, 
When  you  can  pipe   that  merry  old 

strain, 
Robert  of  Lincoln,  come  back  again. 
Chee,  chee,  chee. 

William  Cullen  Bryant. 


THE  SNOW-BIRD'S  SONG. 

The  ground  was  all  covered  with  snow 

one  day, 
And  two  little  sisters  were  busy  at 

Play, 


When  a  snow-bird  was  sitting  close 
by,  on  a  tree, 

And  merrily  singing  his  chick-a-dee- 
dee, 
Chick-a-dee-dee,  chick-a-dee-dee, 

And  merrily  singing  his  chick-a-dee- 
dee. 

He  had  not  been  singing  that  tune 
very  long 

Ere  Emily  heard  him,  so  loud  was 
his  song: 

"Oh,  sister,  look  out  of  the  window!" 
said  she, 

"  Here's    a    dear   little    bird    singing 
chick-a-dee-dee ; 
Chick-a-dee-dee,  chick-a-dee-dee, 

Here's  a  dear  little  bird  singing  chick- 
a-dee-dee. 

"  Oh,  mother,  do  get  him  some  stock- 
ings and  shoes. 

And  a  nice  little  frock,  and  a  hat  if  he 
choose ; 

I  wish  he'd  come  into  the  parlor  and 
see 

How  warm  we  would  make  him,  poor 
chick-a-dee-dee ! 
Chick-a-dee-dee,  chick-a-dee-dee, 

How  warm  we  would  make  him,  poor 
chick-a-dee-dee !" 

"  There  is  One,  my  dear  child,  though 
I  cannot  tell  who, 

Has  clothed  me  already,  and  warm 
enough  too ; 

Good-morning ! — Oh  who  are  so  happy 
as  we?" 

And  away  he  went,  singing  his  chick- 
a-dee-dee  ; 
Chick-a-dee-dee,  chick-a-dee-dee, 

And  away  he  went,  singing  his  chick- 
a-dee-dee. 

F.   C.   WOODWORTH. 


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THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


MY  WINTER  FRIEND. 

The  chickadee,  the  chickadee ! 
A  chosen  friend  of  mine  is  he. 
His    head    and     throat     are     glossy 

black, 
He  wears  a  great-coat  on  his  back  ; 
His  vest  is  light — 'tis  almost  white, 
His   eyes  are  round  and  clear  and 

bright. 

He   picks   the    seeds    from   withered 

weeds ; 
Upon  my  table-crumbs  he  feeds ; 
He  comes  and  goes  through  falling 

snows ; 
The  freezing  wind  around  him  blows — 
He  heeds  it  not :  his  heart  is  gay 
As  if  it  were  the  breeze  of  May. 


The  whole   day   long    he   sings   one 
song, 

Though  dark  the  sky  may  be ; 
And  better  than  all  other  birds 

I  love  the  chickadee. 

The  blue-bird  coming  in  the  spring, 
The  goldfinch  with  his  yellow  wing, 
The     humming-bird    that    feeds    on 

pinks 
And  roses,  and  the  bobolinks, 
The  robins  gay,  the  sparrows  gray, — 
They  all  delight  me  while  they  stay. 

But  when,  ah  me !  they  chance  to  see 

A  red  leaf  on  the  maple  tree, 

They   all    cry,   "  Oh,   we    dread    the 

snow!" 
And  spread  their  wings  in  haste  to  go ; 


ANIMALS   AMD    BIRDS. 


249 


And  when  they  all  have   southward 

flown, 
The  chickadee  remains  alone. 

A  bird  that  stays  in  wintry  days, 

A  friend  indeed  is  he ; 
And  better  than  all  other  birds 

I  love  the  chickadee. 

Marian  Douglas. 

WHAT  THE  SPARROW  CHIRPS. 

I  am  only  a  little  sparrow, 

A  bird  of  low  degree ; 
My  life  is  of  little  value, 

But  the  dear  Lord  cares  for  me. 

He  gave  me  a  coat  of  feathers ; 

It  is  very  plain,  I  know, 
With  never  a  speck  of  crimson, 

For  it  was  not  made  for  show. 

But  it  keeps  me  warm  in  winter, 
And  it  shields  me  from  the  rain ; 

Were  it  bordered  with  gold  or  purple 
Perhaps  it  would  make  me  vain." 

By  and  by,  when  the  spring-time  comes, 

I'll  build  myself  a  nest, 
With  many  a  chirp  of  pleasure, 

In  the  spot  I  like  the  best. 

And  He  will  give  me  wisdom 

To  build  it  of  leaves  most  brown ; 

Soft  it  must  be  for  my  birdies, 
And  so  I  will  line  it  with  down. 

I  have  no  barn  or  storehouse, 

I  neither  sow  nor  reap ; 
God  gives  me  a  sparrow's  portion, 

But  never  a  seed  to  keep. 

If  my  meal  is  sometimes  scanty, 
Close  picking  makes  it  sweet ; 

I  have  always  enough  to  feed  me, 
And  "  life  is  more  than  meat." 


I  know  there  are  many  sparrows — 
All  over  the  world  we  are  found — 

But  our  heavenly  Father  knoweth 
When  one  of  us  falls  to  the  ground. 

Though  small,  we  are  never  forgotten; 

Though  weak,  we  are  never  afraid ; 
For  we  know  that  the  dear  Lord  keep- 
eth 

The  life  of  the  creatures  he  made. 

I  fly  through  the  thickest  forests, 

I  light  on  many  a  S])ray  ; 
I  have  no  chart  nor  compass, 

But  I  never  lose  my  way. 

And  I  fold  my  wings  at  twilight, 
Wherever  I  happen  to  be ; 

For  the  Father  is  always  watching, 
And  no  harm  will  come  to  me. 

I  am  only  a  little  sparrow, 

A  bird  of  low  degree, 
But  I  know  that  the  Father  loves  me. 

Have  you  less  faith  than  we  ? 

Poems  of  Home  Life. 


THE  SPARROW'S  NEST. 

Nay,  only  look  what  I  have  found ! 
A  sparrow's  nest  upon  the  ground — 
A  sparrow's  nest,  as  you  may  see, 
Blown  out  of  yonder  old  elm  tree. 

And  what  a  medley  thing  it  is ! 
I  never  saw  a  nest  like  this — 
Not  neatly  wove  with  tender  care 
Of  silvery  moss  and  shining  hair ; 

But  put  together — odds  and  ends 
Picked  up  from  enemies  and  friends  ; 
See !  bits  of  thread  and  bits  of  rag, 
Just  like  a  little  rubbish-bag ! 

Here  is  a  scrap  of  red  and  brown. 
Like  the  old  washerwoman's  gown  , 


250 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF    POETRY. 


And  here  is  muslin  pink  and  green, 
And  bits  of  calico  between. 

Oh,  never  thinks  the  lady  fair, 
As  she  goes  by  with  dainty  air, 
How  the  pert  sparrow  overhead 
Has  robbed  her  gown  to  make  its  bed  ! 

See !  hair  of  dog  and  fur  of  cat, 

And  rovings  of  a  worsted  mat, 

And    shreds    of   silk,   and    many    a 

feather, 
Compacted  cunningly  together ! 

Well,  here   has   hoarding   been,  and 

hiving, 
And  not  a  little  good  contriving, 
Before  a  home  of  peace  and  ease 
Was    fashioned    out   of   things    like 

these ! 

Think,  had  these  odds  and  ends  been 

brought 
To    some    wise    man    renowned    for 

thought — 
Some  man,  of  men  a  very  gem — 
Pray,  what  could  he  have  done  with 

them  ? 

If  we  had  said,  "  Here,  sir,  we  bring 
You  many  a  worthless  little  thing, 
Just  bits  and  scraps,  so  very  small 
That  they  have  scarcely  size  at  all ; 

"And  out  of  these  you  must  contrive 
A  dwelling  large  enough  for  five, 
Neat,  warm,  and  snug,  with  comfort 

stored, 
Where  five  small  things  may   lodge 

and  board ;" 

How  would  the  man  of  learning  vast 
Have  been  astonished  and  aghast ! 
And  vowed  that  such  a  thing  had  been 
Ne'er  heard  of,  thought  of,  much  less 
seen! 


Ah  !  man  of  learning,  you  are  wrong ! 
Instinct  is  more  than  wisdom  strong ; 
And  He  who  made  the  sparrow  taught 
This  skill  beyond  your  reach  of 
thought. 

And  here,  in  this  uncostly  nest, 
Five  little  creatures  have  been  blest ; 
Nor  have  kings  known,  in  palaces, 
Half  their  contentedness  in  this, 
Poor,  simple  dwelling  as  it  is ! 

Mary  Howir". 

THE  PARROT. 

A   TRUE   STORY. 

The  deep  affections  of  the  breast, 
That  Heaven  to  living  things  im- 
parts, 
Are  not  exclusively  possessed 
By  human  hearts. 

A  parrot  from  the  Spanish  Main, 

Full  young  and  early  caged,  came  o'er 
With  bright  wings  to  the  bleak  domain 
Of  Mulla's  shore. 

To  spicy  groves,  where  he  had  won 
His  plumage  of  resplendent  hue, 
His  native  fruits,  and  skies,  and  sun, 
He  bade  adieu. 

For  these  he  changed  the  smoke  of  turf, 

A  heathery  land,  and  misty  sky, 
And  turned  on  rocks  and  raging  surf 
His  golden  eye. 

But,  petted  in  our  climate  cold, 

He  lived  and  chattered  many  a  day, 
Until,  with  age,  from  green  and  gold 
His  wings  grew  gray. 

Atlast,  when,  blind  and  seeming  dumb, 
He  scolded,  laughed,  and  spoke  no 
more, 
A  Spanish  stranger  chanced  to  come 
To  Mulla's  shore. 


ANIMALS   AMD    BIRDS. 


251 


He  hailed  the  bird  in  Spanish  speech ; 
The  bird  in  Spanish  speech  replied, 
Flapped  round  the  cage  with  joyous 
screech, 

Dropt  down,  and  died ! 

Thomas  Campbell. 


PUSS  AND  THE  PARROT. 

A  parrot  that  lived  at  a  gentleman's 
house 

Could  chatter,  and  sometimes  lie  still 
as  a  mouse ; 

He  was  hung  at  the  door  in  a  cage 
that  was  gay, 

And   treated   with  plenty ;    one   fine 
sunny  day, 
,  When  the  cat,  through  mere  envy,  was 
thus  heard  to  say, 

"  Pray,  sir,  do  you  live  on  these  ex- 
cellent things 

Because  you're  a  bird,  and  have  feath- 
ers and  wings  ? 

If  a  cat  is  in  want  of  a  dinner  that's 
nice, 

She  must  hunt  in  the  garret  or  cellar 
for  mice.-" 

The  parrot,  observing   the   cat  in   a 
rage, 

Said,  "  Pray,  Miss  Puss,  are  you  fond 
of  a  cage  ? 

Should  you  like  to  be  kept  in  a  prison 
like  me, 

And  never  permitted  your  neighbors 
to  see  ? 

Deprived   of  all  means   of  assisting 
yourself, 

Though  numberless  dainties  in  sight 
on  the  shelf? 

Should  you  like  to  be  fed  at  the  will 
•  of  a  master, 

And  die  of  neglect  or  some  cruel  dis- 
aster ? 


You  cannot  believe  it  more  happy  to 
be 

A  parrot  encaged,  than  a  cat,  and  quite 
free  ?" 

The  cat  was  convinced  that  this  rea- 
soning was  true, 

And,  ashamed  of  her  envy,  in  silence 
withdrew. 


THE  GREAT  BROWN  OWL. 

The  brown  owl  sits  in  the  ivy-bush, 
And  she  looketh  wondrous  wise, 

With    a    horny    beak     beneath     her 
cowl, 
And  a  pair  of  large  round  eyes. 

She    sat    all    day    on    the     selfsame 
spray 
From  sunrise  till  sunset; 
And  the  dim  gray  light  it  was  all  too 
bright 
For  the  owl  to  see  in  yet. 


"  Jenny  Owlet,  Jenny  Owlet,"  said  a 
merry  little  bird, 
"  They  say  you're  wondrous  wise  ; 
But  I  don't   think   you   see,  though 
you're  looking  at  me 
With    your    large,    round    shining 
eyes." 

But  night  came   soon,  and   the  pale 
white  moon 
Rolled  high  up  in  the  skies  ;  ' 

And  the  great  brown  owl  flew  away  in 
her  cowl, 
With    her    large,    round     shining 
eyes. 

Aunt  Erie's  Rhymes. 


252 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


THE  CROW  AND  THE  CHEESE. 
A  crow,  as  he  flew  by  a  farm  window- 
sill, 
A  choice  piece  of  cheese  carried  off  in 

his  bill. 
Intent  on  enjoying  his  banquet  alone, 
And  making  the  treasure  more  strictly 

his  own, 
He  flies  to  a  tree,  where  the  boughs, 

green  and  high, 
Hold   out   a  broad   screen   from   the 

curious  eye. 
A    fox,   notwithstanding,   the  choice 

morsel  spies, 
And  plans  his  approaches  to  get  at  the 

prize. 

"  Fair  bird,"  said  he,  "  how  I  admire 
thy  wing, 

And  thy  musical  throat — for  I  know 
thou  canst  sing ; 

Only  yesterday,  passing  these  elm 
trees,  I  heard, 

Methought,  the  rich  tones  of  the  night- 
warbling  bird  ; 


So  softly  and  sweetly  they  fell  on  the 
ear, 

I  could  but  imagine  the  nightingale 
near. 

Repeat  for  my  pleasure  the  ravishing 
strain ; 

Tune  your  voice  to  those  notes  of  en- 
chantment again." 

These  speeches,  delivered  with  flatter-   . 
ing  skill, 

Prevail  with  the  crow  to  unfasten  her 
bill; 

Down  drops  on  the  ground  the  much- 
coveted  cheese, 

Which  the  fox,  snapping  up,  carries 
off  at  his  ease, 

Observing,  though  much  he  admired 
her  strains, 

No  compliment  yet  could  he  pass  on 
her  brains. 

THE  CROW'S  CHILDREN. 
A  huntsman,  bearing  his  gun  afield, 
Went  whistling  merrily, 


ANIMALS   AND    BIRDS. 


253 


When  he  heard  the  blackest  of  black 
crows 
Call  out  from  a  withered  tree  : 

"  You  are  going  to  kill  the  thievish 
birds, 

And  I  would  if  I  were  you  ; 
But  you  mustn't  touch  my  family,  • 

Whatever  else  you  do." 

"  I'm  only  going  to  kill  the  birds 
That  are  eating  up  my  crop  ; 

And  if  your  young  ones  do  such  things, 
Be  sure  they'll  have  to  stop." 

"  Oh,"  said  the  crow,  "  my  children 
Are  the  best  ones  ever  born ; 

There  isn't  one  among  them  all 
Would  steal  a  grain  of  corn." 

"  But  how  shall  I  know  which  ones 
they  are  ? 
Do  they  resemble  you  ?" 
"  Oh  no,"  said  the  crow  ;  "  they're  the 
prettiest  birds, 
And  the  whitest  that  ever  flew !" 

So  off  went  the  sportsman  whistling, 
And  off,  too,  went  his  gun  ; 

And  its  startling  echoes  never  ceased 
Again  till  the  day  was  done. 

And  the  old  crow  sat  untroubled, 

Cawing  away  in  her  nook, 
For  she   said,  "  He'll  never  kill  my 
birds, 

Since  I  told  him  how  they  look. 

"  Now  there's  the  hawk,  my  neighbor ; 

She'll  see  what  she  will  see  soon ; 
And  that  saucy  whistling  blackbird 

May  have  to  change  his  tune !" 

When,  lo  !  she  saw  the  hunter 
Taking  his  homeward  track, 


With  a  string  of  crows  as  long  as  his 
gun 
Hanging  down  his  back. 

"  Alack  !  alack  !"  said  the  mother, 
"  What,in  the  world  have  you  done  ? 

You  promised  to  spare  my  pretty  birds, 
And  you've  killed  them  every  one  !" 

"  Your  birds  !"  said  the  puzzled  hun- 
ter ; 

"  Why,  I  found  them  in  my  corn  ; 
And  besides,  they  are  black  and  ugly 

As  any  that  ever  were  born !" 

"  Get  out  of  my  sight,  you  stupid"!" 
Said  the  angriest  of  crows ; 

"  How  good  and  fair  her  children  are 
There's  none  but  a  parent  knows  !" 

"  Ah  !  I  see,  I  see,"  said  the  hunter, 
"  But  not  as  you  do,  quite  ; 

It  takes  a  mother  to  be  so  blind 
She  can't  tell  black  from  white  !" 

Phcebe  Cary. 


THE  RAVEN  AND  THE  OAK. 

Underneath  an  old  oak  tree 

There  was  of  swine  a  huge  company, 

That  grunted  as  they  crunched  the 

mast, 
For  that  was  ripe  and  fell  full  fast. 
Then  they  trotted  away,  for  the  wind 

grew  high ; 
One   acorn   they   left,   and   no   more 

might  you  spy. 
Next  came  a  raven  that  liked  not  such 

folly: 
He  belonged,  they  did  say,  to  the  witch 

Melancholy  ! 
Blacker  was  he  than  blackest  jet, 
Flew  low  in  the  rain  and  his  feathers 

not  wet. 


254 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


He  picked  up  the  acorn  and  buried  it 

straight 
By  the  side  of  a  river  both  deep  and 
great. 
Where  then  did  the  raven  go  ? 
He  went  high  and  low  ;  • 
Over   hill,  over  dale,   did   the   black 
raven  go. 
Many  autumns,  many  springs 
Travelled  he  with  wandering  wings : 
Many  summers,  many  winters  ; 
I  can't  tell  half  his  adventures. 

At  length  he  came  back,  and  with  him 

a  she, 
And  the  acorn  was  grown  to  a  tall  oak 

tree ; 
They  built  them  a  nest  in  the  topmost 

bough, 
And  young  ones  they  had,  and  were 

happy  enow. 
But  soon  came  a  woodman  in  leathern 

guise ; 
His  brow,  like  a  pent-house,  hung  over 

his  eyes. 
He'd  an  axe  in  his  hand ;  not  a  word 

he  spoke, 
But   with   many   a   "  Hem !"    and   a 

sturdy  stroke 
At  length  he  brought  down  the  poor 

raven's  old  oak ; 
His  young  ones  were  killed,  for  they 

could  not  depart, 
And  their  mother  did  die  of  a  broken 

heart. 

The  boughs  from  the  trunk  the  wood- 
man did  sever, 

And  they  floated  it  down  on  the  course 
of  the  river ; 

They  sawed  it  in  planks,  and  its  bark 
they  did  strip, 

And  with  this  tree  and  others  they 
made  a  good  ship. 


The  ship   it  was  launched,   but    in 

sight  of  the  land 
Such  a  storm  there  did  rise  as  no  ship 

could  withstand. 
It  bulged  on  a  rock,  and  the  waves 

rushed  in  fast : 
The  old  raven  flew  round  and  round, 

and  cawed  to  the  blast. 
He  heard  the  last  shriek  of  the  perish- 
ing souls — 
See !   see !  o'er  the  topmast  the  mad 

water  rolls ! 
Right  glad  was  the  raven,  and  off  he 

went  fleet, 
And  Death  riding  home  on  a  cloud  he 

did  meet,  ^ 
And  he  thanked  him  again  and  again 

for  this  treat : 
They  had  taken  his  all,  and  revenge 

was  sweet. 

Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge. 


BOY  AND  LARK. 

Who  taught  you  to  sing, 
My  sweet  pretty  birds  ? 
Who  tuned  your  beautiful  throats  ? 
You  make  all  the  woods 

And  the  valleys  to  ring, 
You  bring  the  first  news 
Of  the  earliest  spring, 
With  your  loud  and  silvery  notes. 


"  It  was  God,"  said  a  lark, 
As  he  rose  from  the  earth  ; 
"  He  gives  us  the  good  we  enjoy  : 
He  painted  our  wings, 

He  gave  us  our  voice, 
He  finds  us  our  food, 
He  bids  us  rejoice — 
Good-morning,  my  beautiful  boy !" 

Lydia  H.  Sigourney. 


ANIMALS  AND    BIRDS. 


255 


THE  SINGING-LESSON. 
A  nightingale  made  a  mistake  ; 

She  sang  a  few  notes  out  of  tune ; 
Her  heart  was  ready  to  break, 

And  she  hid  from  the  moon. 
She  wrung  her  claws,  poor  thing ! 

But  was  far  too  proud  to  weep ; 
She  tucked  her  head  under  her  wing, 

And  pretended  to  be  asleep. 

A  lark,  arm  in  arm  with  a  thrush, 

Came  sauntering  up  to  the  place ; 
The  nightingale  felt  herself  blush, 

Though  feathers  hid  her  face. 
She  knew  they  had  heard  her  song, 

She  felt  them  snicker  and  sneer ; 
She  thought  this  life  was  too  long, 

And  wished  she  could  skip  a  year. 

"  Oh,  Nightingale,"  cooed  a  dove — 
"  Oh,  Nightingale,  what's  the  use  ? 


You  bird  of  beauty  and  love. 

Why  behave  like  a  goose  ? 
Don't  skulk  away  from  our  sight. 

Like  common,  contemptible  fowl ; 
You  bird  of  joy  and  delight, 

Why  behave  like  an  owl  ? 


"  Only  think  of  all  you  have  done, 

Only  think  of  all  you  can  do  ; 
A  false  note  is  really  fun 

From  such  a  bird  as  you. 
Lift  up  your  proud  little  crest, 

Open  your  musical  beak  ; 
Other  birds  have  to  do  their  best — 

You  need  only  to  speak." 

The  nightingale  shyly  took 

Her  head  from  under  her  wing, 

And,  giving  the  dove  a  look, 
Straightway  began  to  sing. 


256 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


There  was  never  a  bird  could  pass  ; 

The  night  was  divinely  calm, 
And  the  people  stood  on  the  grass" 

To  hear  that  wonderful  psalm. 

The  nightingale  did  not  care ; 

She  only  sang  to  the  skies  ; 
Her  song  ascended  there, 

And  there  she  fixed  her  eyes. 
The  people  that  stood  below 

She  knew  but  little  about ; 
And  this  story's  a  moral,  I  know, 

If  you'll  try  to  find  it  out. 

Jean  Ingelow. 


THE  LARK  AND  THE  ROOK. 

"  Good-night,  Sir  Rook,"  said  a  little 

Lark; 
"The  daylight  fades,  it  will  soon  be 

dark; 
I've   bathed   my   wings   in  the  sun's 

last  ray, 
I've   sung   my   hymn    to   the    dying 

day; 
So  now  I  haste  to  my  quiet  nook 
In   yon   dewy   meadow ;    good-night, 

Sir  Rook." 

"  Good-night,   poor    Lark,"   said    his 

titled  friend, 
With  a  haughty  toss   and    a   distant 

bend; 
"  I  also  go  to  my  rest  profound, 
But  not  to  sleep  on  the  cold  damp 

ground ; 
The  fittest  place  for  a  bird  like  me 
Is  the  topmost  bough  of  yon  tall  pine 

tree. 

"  I  opened  my  eyes  at  peep  of  day, 
And   saw   you   taking   your   upward 
way, 


Dreaming       your       fond      romantic 

dreams — 
An   ugly   speck   in   the  sun's   bright 

beams — 
Soaring  too  high  to  be  seen  or  heard  ; 
And  said  to  myself,  What  a  foolish 

bird! 

"  I  trod  the  park  with  a  princely  air, 
I  filled  my  crop  with  the  richest  fare ; 
I  cawed  all  da}r  'mid  a  lordly  crew, 
And  I  made  more  noise  in  the  world 

than  you : 
The   sun    shone   forth    on   my   ebon 

wing  ; 
I  looked  and  wondered ;  good-night, 

poor  thing !" 

"  Good-night,  once    more,"  said    the 

Lark's  sweet  voice ; 
"  I  see  no  cause  to  repent  my  choice. 
You  build  your  nest  in  the  lofty  pine, 
But  is  your  slumber  more  soft  than 

mine? 
You  make  more  noise  in  the  world 

than  I, 
But  whose  is  the  sweetest  minstrelsy?" 


TO  THE  LARK. 

In  the  sun's  bright  gold, 

O'er  mountain  and  wold, 
Thy  gladsome  song  doth  ring, 

As  thou  fliest  free 

Through  the  azure  sea, 
Cooling  thy  airy  wing. 

Where  the  light  cloud  soars, 
Where  the  torrent  pours, 

Canst   thou   flit  o'er  the   mountain's 
brow ; 
Then  down  at  a  bound 
From  the  sky  to  the  ground — 

Oh,  a  glorious  life  hast  thou ! 


ANIMALS   AXB    BIRDS. 


257 


THE  NIGHTINGALE  AND  THE  GLOW- 
WORM. 

A  nightingale  that  all  day  long 
Had  cheered  the  village  with  his  song, 
Nor  yet  at  eve  his  note  suspended, 
Nor  yet  when  eventide  was  ended, 
Began  to  feel,  as  well  he  might, 
The  keen  demands  of  appetite; 
When,  looking  eagerly  around, 
He  spied  far  off,  upon  the  ground, 
A  something  shining  in  the  dark, 
And    knew   the   Glow-worm    by   his 

spark. 
So,    stooping    down    from    hawthorn 

top, 
He  thought  to  put  him  in  his  crop. 
The  worm,  aware  of  his  intent, 
Harangued  him  thus,  right  eloquent : 
"  Did  you  admire  my  lamp,"  quoth  he, 
"  As  much  as  I  your  minstrelsy, 
You  would  abhor  to  do  me  wrong 
As  much  as  I  to  spoil  your  song  ; 
For  'twas  the  selfsame  Power  divine 
Taught  you  to  sing  and  me  to  shine, 
That  you  with  music,  I  with  light, 
Might  beautify  and  cheer  the  night." 
The  songster  heard  this  short  oration, 
And,  warbling  out  his  approbation, 
Released  him,  as  my  story  tells, 
And  found  a  supper  somewhere  else. 

WlLLIAJI   C'OWPER. 

GRADATION. 

A  sparrow  caught  upon  a  tree 

The  plumpest  fly ;  all,  all  unheeded 

Were  struggles,  cries,  and  agony, 
As  for  his  life  the  victim  pleaded. 

"  Nay,"  quoth  the  sparrow,  "  you  must 
die, 

For  you  are  not  so  strong  as  I." 

A  hawk  surprised  him  at  his  meal, 
And  in  a  trice  poor  Sparrow  spitted  ; 
17 


In  vain  he  gasped  his  last  appeal : 
"  What   crime,   Sir   Hawk,    have  I 

committed  ?" 
"  Peace !"  quoth  the  captor  ;  "  you  must 

die, 
For  you  are  not  so  strong  as  I." 

Down    swooped   an   eagle,   who    had 
spied 
With  grim  delight  the  state  of  mat- 
ters ; 
"  Release  me,  king,"  the  victim  cried, 
"  You  tear  my  very  flesh  to  tatters." 
"  Nay,"-  quoth  the   eagle,  "  you  must 

die, 
For  you  are  not  so  strong  as  I." 

A  bullet  whistled  at  the  word, 

And  struck  him  ere  his  feast  was 
ended ; 
"Ah,  tyrant !"  shrieked  the  dying  bird, 
"  To  murder  him  who  ne'er  offend- 
ed !" 
"Oh,"  quoth  the  sportsman, "  you  must 

die, 
For  you  are  not  so  strong  as  I." 


THE  CLOCKING  HEN. 

"  Will  you  take  a  walk  with  me, 

My  little  wife,  to-day  ? 
There's  barley  in  the  barley-field, 

And  hay-seed  in  the  hay." 
"Oh,  thank  you!"  said  the  clocking 
hen, 

"  I've  something  else  to  do ; 
I'm  busy  sitting  on  my  eggs — 

I  cannot  walk  with  you." 

"  Clock,  clock,  clock,  clock  !" 

Said  the  clocking  hen  ; 
"  My  little  chicks  will  soon  be  hatched  ; 

I'll  think  about  it  then." 


258 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


The  clocking  hen  sat  on  her  nest — 

She  made  it  in  the  hay — 
And   warm    and    snug    beneath   her 
breast 

A  dozen  white  eggs  lay. 

Crack,  crack  !  went  all  the  eggs — 

Out  dropt  the  chickens  small. 
"  Clock  !"  said  the  clocking  hen  ; 

"  Now  I  have  you  all. 
Come  along,  my  little  chicks  ! 

I'll  take  a  walk  Avith  yoiC 
"  Hollo !"  said  the  barn-door  cock, 

"  Cock-a-doodle-do !" 

Aunt  Effie's  Rhymes. 


THE  CHICKENS. 

See  !  the  chickens  round  the  gate 
For  their  morning  portion  wait ; 
Fill  the  basket  from  the  store, 
Let  us  open  wide  the  door ; 
Throw  out  crumbs  and  scatter  seed, 
Let  the  hungry  chickens  feed. 
Call  them  ;  now  how  fast  they  run, 
Gladly,  quickly,  every  one ! 
Eager,  busy  hen  and  chick, 
Every  little  morsel  pick  ; 
See  the  hen,  with  callow  brood, 
To  her  young  how  kind  and  good  ! 


With  what  care  their  steps  she  leads ! 
Them,  and  not  herself,  she  feeds, 
Picking  here  and  picking  there, 
Where  the  nicest  morsels  are. 

As  she  calls  they  flock  around, 
Bustling  all  along  the  ground ; 
When  their  daily  labors  cease, 
And  at  night  they  rest  in  peace, 
All  the  little  tiny  things 
Nestle  close  beneath  her  wings  ; 
There  she  keeps  them  safe  and  warm, 
Free  from  fear  and  free  from  harm. 

Now,  my  little  child,  attend  : 
Your  almighty  Father,  Friend, 
Though  unseen  by  mortal  eye, 
Watches  o'er  you  from  on  high  ; 
As  the  hen  her  chickens  leads, 
Shelters,  cherishes,  and  feeds, 
So  by  Him  your  feet  are  led, 
Over  you  His  wings  are  spread. 

D.  A.  T. 

KATY'S  GUESS. 
With  twelve  wrhite  eggs  in  a  downy 
nest 
The  old  hen  sits  in  a  box  in  the  shed, 
And  the  children  yesterday  stood  and 

guessed 
Of  the  hopes  that  hid  in  her  speckled 
breast, 
Of  the  dreams  that  danced  through 
her  red-crowned  head. 

"She  thinks,"  said   the    labor-hating 

Ned, 
"  Of  a  land  where  weasels  are  all 

asleep, 
Where  the  hawks  are  blind  and  the 

dogs  are  dead, 
Where  are  heaps  of  corn  as  high  as 

the  shed, 
And  plenty  of  earth-worms  for  her 

to  eat." 


ANIMALS  AND    BIRDS. 


259 


"  She    remembers    the    county   fair," 
says  Bess, 
'■  And  the  prize  she  took  at  Hamp- 
ton town." 

'•  No,  no,  she  don't,"  cried  James  the 
less — 

"  She  dreams  of  her  little  ducks,  I 
guess — 


"  She    fink,"   says    the    bright-haired 

baby  Kate, 
As  she  lifts  the  latch  of  the  garden-gate, 
"  Vere'll  be  tickens  to  skatch  for  by 

and  by." 

Three  cheers  for  the  wisdom  of  three- 
years-old  ! 


Who  told  you  the  secret,  little  pet, 
She    is   wondering    yet   why   they    That  love  ig  better  tKan  eage  or  gok]- 

didn't  drown.  '  j  That  labor  for  ]oye  payg  ft  thousand. 

And    Avhat    say    you,    little    Curly-  |  fold? 

pate?  "  Oo  finked  it  oorself  ?"    Well,  don't 

I  see  a  thought  in  your  merry  eye."  •  forget. 


THE  POND. 
There  was  a  round  pond,  and  a  pretty 

pond  too ; 
About   it   white   daisies    and  violets 

grew, 
And  dark  weeping-willows,  that  stoop 

to  the  ground, 
Dipped  in  their  long   branches   and 

shaded  it  round. 

A  party  of  ducks  to  this  pond  would 

repair, 
To  sport  'mid  the  green  water-weeds 

that  grew  there ; 


Indeed,  the  assembly  would  frequent- 
ly meet 

To  discuss  their  affairs  in  this  pleasant 
retreat. 

Xow,  the  subjects  on  which  they  were 
wont  to  converse 

I  am  sorry  I  cannot  exactly  re- 
hearse, 

For,  though  I've  oft  listened  in  hopes 
of  discerning, 

I  own  'tis  a  matter  that  baffles  my 
learning. 


260 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


One  day  a  young  chicken  that  lived 
thereabout 

Stood  watching  to  see  the  ducks  pop 
in  and  out, 

Now  turning  tail  upward,  now  div- 
ing below — 

She  thought,  of  all  things,  she  should 
like  to  do  so. 

So  the  poor  silly  chick  was  deter- 
mined to  try  ; 

She  thought  'twas  as  easy  to  swim  as 
to  fly; 

Though  her  mother  had  told  her  she 
must  not  go  near, 

She  foolishly  thought  there  was  noth- 
ing to  fear. 

"  Ducks  have  feathers  and  wings,  and 

so  have  I  too ; 
And  my  feet — what's  the  reason  that 

they  will  not  do  ? 
Though  my  beak  is  pointed,  and  their 

beaks  are  round, 
Is  that  any  reason  that  I  should  be 

drowned  ? 

"  Why  should  I  not  swim  then  as  well 

as  a  duck  ? 
Suppose  that  I  venture,  and  just  try 

my  luck ; 
For,"  said  she,  'spite  of  all  that  her 

mother  had  taught  her, 
"  I'm  really  remarkably  fond  of  the 

water." 

So  into  the  pond  the  young  chicken 

she  flew, 
But    soon   found   her   dear   mother's 

cautions  were  true ; 
She  splashed,  and  she  dashed,  and  she 

turned  herself  round, 
And  heartily  wished  herself  safe  on 

the  ground. 


But  now  'twas  too  late  to  begin  to  re- 
pent : 

The  harder  she  struggled  the  deeper 
she  went ; 

And  when  every  effort  she  vainly  had 
tried, 

She  slowly  sank  down  to  the  bottom 
and  died. 

The  ducks,  I  perceived,  began  loudly 

to  quack 
When  they  saw  the  poor  fowl  floating 

dead  on  her  back, 
And  by  their  grave  looks  they  seemed 

to  be  saying 
That  this  is  what  came  of  a  chick's 

disobeying. 

Jane  Taylor. 

THE  MOTHERLESS  TURKEYS. 

The  white  turkey  was  dead !  the  white 
turkey  was  dead  ! 
How  the  news  through  the  barnyard 
went  flying ! 
Of  a  mother  bereft,  four  small  turkeys 
were  left, 
And  their  case  for  assistance  was 
crying. 
E'en  the  peacock  respectfully  folded 
his  tail 
As  a  suitable  symbol  of  sorrow, 
And  his  plainer  wife  said,  "  Now  the 
old  bird  is  dead, 
Who  will  tend  her  poor  chicks  on 
the  morrow  ? 
And  when  evening  around  them  comes 
dreary  and  chill, 
Who    above  them  will  watchfully 
hover  ?" 
"  Two  each  night  /  will  tuck  'neath 
my  wings,"  said  the  duck, 
"  Though   I've  eight  of  my  own  I 
must  cover." 


ANIMALS   AND    BIRDS. 


261 


"  I  have  so  much  to  do  !     For  the  bugs 
and  the  worms 
In  the  garden  'tis  tiresome  pickin'; 
I  have  nothing  to  spare — for  my  own 
I  must  care," 
Said  the  hen  with  one  chicken. 

"  How  I  wish,"   said   the   goose,   "  I 
could  he  of  some  use, 
For   my   heart   is  with   love   over- 
brimming ! 
The   next   morning   that's   fine   they 
shall  go  with  my  nine 
Little   yellow-backed    goslings   out 
swimming." 
"  I  will  do  what  I  can,"  the  old  Dork- 
ing put  in, 
"  And  for  help  they  may  call  upon 
me  too, 
Thougli  I've  ten  of  my  own  that  are 
only  half  grown, 
And  a  great  deal  of  trouble  to  see 
to. 
But  those  poor  little  things,  they  are 
all  heads  and  wings, 
And  their  bones  through  their  feath- 
ers are  stickin' !" 
"  Very  hard  it  may  be,  but  oh  don't 
come  to  me!" 
Said  the  hen  with  one  chicken. 

"  Half  my  care,   I  suppose,  there  is 
nobody  knows — 
I'm    tbe     most    overburdened     of 
mothers ! 
They  must  learn,  little  elves,  how  to 
scratch  for  themselves, 
And  not  seek  to  depend  upon  oth- 
ers." 
She  went  by  with  a  cluck,  and  the 
goose  to  the  duck 
Exclaimed,  in  surprise,  "  Well,   I 
never !" 


Said  the  duck,  "  I  declare,  those  who 
have  the  least  care, 
You  will  find,  are  complaining  for 
ever ! 
And  when  all  things  appear  to  look 
threatening  and  drear, 
And  when  troubles  your  pathway 
are  thick  in, 
For  aid  in  your  woe,  oh  beware  how 
you  go 
To  a  hen  with  one  chicken!" 

Marian  Douglas. 


DAME  DUCK'S  LECTURE. 

Old  Mother  Duck  has  hatched  a  brood 

Of  ducklings,  small  and  callow  : 
Their    little    wings    are    short,   their 
down 

Is  mottled  gray  and  yellow. 
There  is  a  quiet  little  stream 

That  runs  into  the  moat, 
Where  tall  green  sedges  spread  their 
leaves, 

And  water-lilies  float. 

Close  by  the  margin  of  the  brook 

The  old  duck  made  her  nest 
Of   straw   and    leaves   and   withered 
grass, 

And  down  from  her  own  breast ; 
And  there  she  sat  for  four  long  weeks, 

In  rainy  days  and  fine, 
Until  the  ducklings  all  came  out — 

Four,  five,  six,  seven,  eight,  nine. 

One   peeped    from    out  beneath    her 
wing, 
One  scrambled  on  her  back  ; 
"  That's  very  rude,"  said  old  Dame 
Duck: 
"Get    off!     quack,    quack,    quack, 
quack ! 


262 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


Tis  close,"  said  Dame  Duck,  shoving 
out 

The  egg-shells  with  her  bill ; 
"  Besides,  it  never  suits  young  ducks 

To  keep  them  sitting  still." 

So,  rising  from  her  nest,  she  said, 

"  Now,  children,  look  at  me : 
A  well-bred  duck  should  waddle  so, 

From  side  to  side — d'ye  see  ?" 
"  Yes,"  said  the  little  ones.    And  then 

She  went  on  to  explain : 
"  A  well-bred  duck  turns  in  its  toes 

As  I  do :  try  again." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  ducklings,  waddling 
on. 

"  That's  better,"  said  their  mother ; 
"  But  well-bred  ducks  walk  in  a  row, 

Straight — one  behind  another." 
"  Yes,"  said  the  little  ducks  again, 

All  waddling  in  a  row. 
"  Now  to  the  pond !"  said  old  Dame 
Duck. 

Splash  !  splash  !  and  in  they  go. 

"  Let  me  swim  first,"  said  old  Dame 
Duck ; 
"  To  this  side,  now  to  that ; 
There,   snap   at  those    great    brown- 
winged  flies : 
They  make  young  ducklings  fat. 
Now,  when   you   reach  the   poultry- 
yard, 
The  hen-wife,  Molly  Head, 
Will  feed  you,  with  the  other  fowls, 
On  bran  and  mashed-up  bread ; 

"  The  hens  will  peck  and  fight,  but 
mind, 

I  hope  that  all  of  you 
Will  gobble  up  the  food  as  fast 

As  well-bred  ducks  should  do. 


You'd  better  get  into  the  dish, 

Unless  it  is  too  small ; 
In  that  case  I  should  use  my  foot, 

And  overturn  it  all." 

The  ducklings  did  as  they  were  bid, 

And  found  the  plan  so  good 
That  from  that  day  the  other  fowls 

Got  hardly  any  food. 
Thus  old  Dame  Duck  brought  up  her 
brood 

In  such  a  genteel  way 
That  every  little  waddler  kept 

Improving  every  day. 

Aunt  Effie's  Rhymes. 


OVER  IN  THE  MEADOW. 

Over  in  the  meadow, 

In  the  sand,  in  the  sun, 
Lived  an  old  mother-toad 
And  her  little  toadie  one. 
"  Wink  !"  said  the  mother ; 
"  I  wink,"  said  the  one  : 
So  she  winked  and  she  blinked 
In  the  sand,  in  the  sun. 

Over  in  the  meadow, 

Where  the  stream  runs  blue, 
Lived  an  old  mother-fish 
And  her  little  fishes  two. 
"  Swim  !"  said  the  mother ; 
"  We  swim,"  said  the  two  : 
So  they  swam  and  they  leaped 
Where  the  stream  runs  blue. 

Over  in  the  meadow, 

In  a  hole  in  a  tree, 
Lived  a  mother  blue-bird 

And  her  little  birdies  three. 
"  Sing !"  said  the  mother  ; 
"  We  sing,"  said  the  three  : 
So  they  sang  and  were  glad 

In  the  hole  in  the  tree. 


ANIMALS   AND    BIRDS. 


263 


Over  in  the  meadow, 

In  the  reeds  on  the  shore, 
Lived  a  mother-muskrat 
And  her  little  ratties  four. 
"■  Dive  !"  said  the  mother  ; 
"  We  dive,"  said  the  four  : 
So  they  dived  and  they  burrowed 
In  the  reeds  on  the  shore. 

Over  in  the  meadow, 
In  a  snug  beehive, 
Lived  a  mother  honey-bee 
And  her  little  honeys  five. 
lL  Buzz !""  said  the  mother ; 
"  We  buzz,"  said  the  five  : 
So  they  buzzed  and  they  hummed 
In  the  snug  beehive. 

Over  in  the  meadow, 

In  a  nest  built  of  sticks, 
Lived  a  black  mother-crow 
And  her  little  crows  six. 
"  Caw !"  said  the  mother  ; 
'"  We  caw,"  said  the  six  : 
So  they  cawed  and  they  called 
In  their  nest  built  of  sticks. 

Over  in  the  meadow, 

Where  the  grass  is  so  even, 
Lived  a  gay  mother-cricket 
And  her  little  crickets  seven. 
"  Chirp !"  said  the  mother ; 
"  We  chirp,"  said  the  seven  : 
So  they  chirped  cheery  notes 
In  the  grass  soft  and  even. 

Over  in  the  meadow, 

By  the  old  mossy  gate, 
Lived  a  brown  mother-lizard 
And  her  little  lizards  eight. 
•'  Bask !"  said  the  mother ; 
"  We  bask,"  said  the  eight : 
So  they  basked  in  the  sun 
On  the  old  mossy  gate. 


Over  in  the  meadow, 

Where  the  clear  pools  shine, 
Lived  a  green  mother-frog 
And  her  little  froggies  nine. 
"  Croak  !"  said  the  mother  ; 
"  We  croak,"  said  the  nine : 
So  they  croaked  and  they  plashed 
Where  the  clear  pools  shine. 

Over  in  the  meadow, 
In  a  sly  little  den, 
Lived  a  gray  mother-spider 
And  her  little  spiders  ten. 
"  Spin !"  said  the  mother ; 
"  We  spin,"  said  the  ten  : 
So  they  spun  lace  webs 
In  their  sly  little  den. 

Over  in  the  meadow, 

In  the  soft  summer  even, 
Lived  a  mother-firefly 

And  her  little  flies  eleven. 
'"Shine  !"  said  the  mother; 

"  We  shine,"  said  the  eleven  :  , 
So  they  shone  like  stars 
In  the  soft  summer  even. 

Over  in  the  meadow, 

Where  the  men  dig  and  delve. 
Lived  a  wise  mother-ant 
And  her  little  anties  twelve. 
"Toil!"  said  the  mother ; 
''  We  toil,"  said  the  twelve  : 
So  they  toiled,  and  were  wise, 
Where  the  men  dig  and  delve. 

Olive  A.  Wadsworth. 


THE  TOAD'S  GOOD-BYE  TO  THE  CHIL- 
DREN. 
Good-bye,  little   children,  I'm  going 

away, 
In  my  snug  little  home  all  winter  to 

stay  ; 


264 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


I  seldom  get  up,  once  I'm  tucked  in  '  And  when  they  came  to  the  mouse's 

my  bed,  ,  hall, 

And  as  it  grows   colder   I  cover  my    They  gave  a  loud  knock,  and  they 


head. 

I     sleep     very     quietly     all     winter 

through, 
And  really  enjoy  it ;  there's  nothing 

to  do ; 
The  flies  are  all  gone,  so  there's  nothing  j 

to  eat, 
And  I  take  this  time  to  enjoy  a  good 

sleep. 


gave  a  loud  call : 

"  Pray,  Mrs.  Mouse,  are  you  within  ?" 
"  Yes,    kind    sir ;     I    am    sitting    to 
spin." 

Pray,  Mrs.  Mouse,  will  you  give  us 
some  beer, 
For  Froggy  and  I  are  fond  of  good 
cheer?" 


My  bed  is  a  nice  little  hole  in  the 

ground,  I  Now,  while  they  were  all  a-merrymak- 

Where,  snug  as  a  bug,  in  the  winter  ing, 


I'm  found ; 
You  might  think  long  fasting  would 

make  me  grow  thin, 
But  no  !  I  stay  plump  as  when  I  go  in. 


The  cat  and  her  kittens  came  tumb- 
ling in. 


The   cat   she   seized   the   rat  by  the 
crown ; 
And,   now,  little   children,  good-bye,  ;  The  kittens  they  pulled  the  little  mouse 

one  and  all;  _  down> 

Some  warm  day,  next  spring,  I  shall 

give  you  a  call : 
I'm  quite  sure  to  know  when  to  get 
out  of  bed — 

When  I  feel  the  warm  sun  shining  |  So  he  took  UP  his  hat'  and  he  wished 

them  good-night. 


This    put    poor    Frog    in   a    terrible 


fright, 


down  on  my  head. 


A  FROG  HE  WOULD  A-WOOING  GO. 

A  frog  he  would  a-wooing  go — 

Sing,  heigh-ho  !  says  Rowle}^ — 
Whether  his  mother  would  let  him  or 
no ; 
With   a   rowley,   powley,  gammon 
and  spinach  ; 
Heigh-ho  !  says  Anthony  Rowley. 


But  as   Froggy  was  crossing  over  a 

brook, 
A  lily-white  duck  came  and  gobbled 

him  up. 


So  there  was  an  end  of  one,  two,  and 
three — 
Heigh-ho  !  says  Rowley — 
The  rat,   the   mouse,   and  the   little 
Froggee ! 
So  off  he  inarched  with  his  opera-        With  a  rowley,  powley,  gammon 

hat,  and  spinach ; 

And  on  the  way  he  met  with  a  rat.       |      Heigh  ho !  says  Anthony  Rowley. 


ANIMALS   AND    BIRDS. 


26.? 


FROGS  AT  SCHOOL. 

Twenty  froggies  went  to  school 
Down  beside  a  rushy  pool : 
Twenty  little  coats  of  green, 
Twenty  vests  all  white  and  clean. 
"  We  must  be  in  time,"  said  they  ; 
"  First  we  study,  then  we  play  ; 
That  is  how  we  keep  the  rule 
When  we  froggies  go  to  school." 

Master  Bullfrog,  grave  and  stern, 
Called  the  classes  in  their  turn ; 
Taught  them  how  to  nobly  strive, 
Likewise  how  to  leap  and  dive  ; 
From  his  seat  upon  the  log, 
Showed  them  how  to  say  "Ker-chog!" 
Also  how  to  dodge  a  blow 
From  the  sticks  that  bad  boys  throw. 

Twenty  froggies  grew  up  fast ; 
Bullfrogs  they  became  at  last ; 
Not  one  dunce  among  the  lot, 
Not  one  lesson  they  forgot ; 
Polished  in  a  high  degree, 
As  each  froggie  ought  to  be, 
Now  they  sit  on  other  logs, 
Teaching  other  little  frogs. 

George  Cooper. 


THE  FLY. 

Baby  bye, 

Here's  a  fly ; 
Let  us  watch  him,  you  and  I. 

How  he  crawls 

Up  the  walls  ! 

Yet  he  never  falls. 
I  believe,  with  six  such  legs, 
You  and  I  could  walk  on  eggs 

There  he  goes 

On  his  toes, 

Tickling  babv's  nose ! 


Spots  of  red 

Dot  his  head, 
Rainbows  on  his  back  are  spread ! 

That  small  speck 
-K   Is  his  neck : 

See  him  nod  and  beck. 
I  can  show  you,  if  you  choose, 
Where  to  look  to  find  his  shoes — 

Three  small  pairs, 

Made  of  hairs; 

These  he  always  wears  ! 

Black  and  brown 

Is  his  gown ; 
He  can  wear  it  upside  down. 

It  is  laced 

Round  his  waist : 

I  admire  his  taste. 
Yet,  though  tight  his  clothes  are  made. 
He  will  lose  them,  I'm  afraid, 

If  to-night 

He  gets  a  sight 

Of  the  candle-light. 

In  the  sun 

Webs  are  spun : 
What  if  he  gets  into  one  ? 

When  it  rains, 

He  complains 

On  the  window-panes. 
Tongues  to  talk  have  you  and  I ; 
God  has  given  the  little  fly 

No  such  things ; 

So  he  sings 

With  his  buzzing  wings. 

He  can  eat 
Bread  and  meat : 
There's  a  mouth  between  his  feet ! 
On  his  back 
Is  a  sack 
Like  a  peddler's  pack. 


266 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


Does  the  baby  understand  ? 
Then  the  fly  shall  kiss  her  hand 

Put  a  crumb 

On  her  thumb ; 

Maybe  he  will  come.        4 

Catch  him  ?     No ! 

Let  him  go ; 
Never  hurt  an  insect  so. 

But,  no  doubt, 

He  flies  out 

Just  to  gad  about. 
Now  you  see  his  wings  of  silk 
Drabbled  in  the  baby's  milk. 

Fie !  oh  fie ! 

Foolish  fly  ! 

How  will  he  get  dry  ? 


THE  FLY. 

Prithee,  little  buzzing  fly, 
Eddying  round  my  taper,  why 
Is  it  that  its  quivering  light, 
Dazzling,  captivates  your  sight  ? 
Bright  my  taper  is,  'tis  true — 
Trust  me,  'tis  too  bright  for  you. 
'Tis  a  flame — vain  thing,  beware ! — 
'Tis  a  flame  you  cannot  bear. 

Touch  it,  and  'tis  instant  fate ; 
Take  my  counsel  ere  too  late : 
Buzz  no  longer  round  and  round  ; 
Settle  on  the  wall  or  ground : 
Sleep  till  morn  ;  at  daybreak  rise  ; 
Danger  then  you  may  despise, 
Enjoying  in  the  sunny  air 
The  life  your  caution  now  may  spare. 


All  wet  flies 

Twist  their  thighs ; 
Then  they  wipe  their  heads  and  eyes. 

Cats,  you  know, 

Wash  just  so  ; 

Then  their  whiskers  grow. 
Flies  have  hair  too  short  to  comb  ; 
So  they  fly  bareheaded  home  : 

But  the  gnat 

Wears  a  hat : 

Do  you  believe  that  ? 

Flies  can  see 

More  than  we ; 
So,  how  bright  their  eyes  must  be ! 

Little  fly, 

Ope  your  eye ; 

Spiders  are  near  by  ! 
For  a  secret  I  can  tell : 
Spiders  never  treat  flies  well ! 

Then  away  ! 

Do  not  stay ; 

Little  fly,  good-day  ! 

Theodore  Tilton. 


Lo !  my  counsel  naught  avails ; 
Round  and  round  and  round  it  sails — 
Sails  with  idle  unconcern ; 
Prithee,  trifler,  canst  thou  burn  ? 
Madly  heedless  as  thou  art, 
Know  thy  danger,  and  depart ; 
Why  persist?     I  plead  in  vain — 
Singed  it  falls,  and  writhes  in  pain. 

Is  not  this — deny  who  can — 
Is  not  this  a  type  of  man  ? 
Like  the  fly,  he  rashly  tries 
Pleasure's  burning  sphere,  and  dies. 
Vain  the  friendly  caution  ;  still 
He  rebels,  alas  !  and  will. 
What  I  sing  let  all  apply ; 
Flies  are  weak,  and  man's  a  fly. 

Bruce. 

HOW  DOTH  THE  LITTLE  BUSY  BEL 

How  doth  the  little  busy  bee 
Improve  each  shining  hour, 

And  gather  honey  all  the  day 
From  every  opening  flower ! 


ANIMALS   AND    BIRDS. 


'267 


How  skilfully  she  builds  her  cell!  For  Satan  finds  some  mischief  still 


How  neat  she  spreads  the  wax ! 
And  labors  hard  to  store  it  well 
With  the  sweet  food  she  makes. 

In  works  of  labor  or  of  skill 
I  would  be  busy  too, 


For  idle  hands  to  do. 

In  books,  or  work,  or  healthful  play 
Let  my  first  years  be  past, 

That  I  may  give  for  every  clay 
Some  good  account  at  last. 

Isaac  Watts. 


THE  SPIDER  AND  THE  FLY. 
"  Will  you  walk  into  my  parlor  ?" 

Said  the  spider  to  the  fly  ; 
"  Tis  the  prettiest  little  parlor 

That  ever  you  did  spy. 
The  way  into  my  parlor 

Is  up  a  winding  stair, 
And  I  have  many  curious  things 

To  show  when  you  are  there." 
"  Oh  no,  no,"  said  the  little  fly ; 

"  To  ask  me  is  in  vain, 
For  who  goes  up  your  winding  stair 

Can  ne'er  come  down  again." 


"I'm  sure  you  must  be  weary 

With  soaring  up  so  high  ; 
Will  you  rest  upon  my  little  bed?" 

Said  the  spider  to  the  fly. 
"  There    are    pretty   curtains    drawn 
around, 

The  sheets  are  fine  and  thin, 
And  if  you  like  to  rest  a  while, 

I'll  snugly  tuck  you  in." 
"  Oh  no,  no,"  said  the  little  fly, 

"  For  I've  often  heard  it  said 
They  never,  never  wake  again 

Who  sleep  upon  your  bed." 


268 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


Said  the  cunning  spider  to  the  fly, 

"  Dear  friend,  what  shall  I  do 
To  prove  the  warm  affection 

I've  always  felt  for  you  ? 
I  have  within  my  pantry 

Good  store  of  all  that's  nice ; 
I'm  sure  you're  very  welcome — 

Will  you  please  to  take  a  slice  ?" 
"  Oh  no,  no,"  said  the  little  fly ; 

"  Kind  sir,  that  cannot  be ; 
I've  heard  what's  in  your  pantry, 

And  I  do  not  wish  to  see." 


"  Sweet  creature,"  said  the  spider, 

"  You're  witty  and  you're  wise ; 
How  handsome  are  your  gauzy  wings ! 

How  brilliant  are  your  eyes ! 
I  have  a  little  looking-glass 

Upon  my  parlor-shelf; 
If  you'll  step  in  one  moment,  dear, 

You  shall  behold  yourself." 
"  I  thank  you,  gentle  sir,"  she  said, 

"  For  what  you're  pleased  to  say ; 
And,  bidding  you  good-morning  now, 

I'll  call  another  day." 


The  spider  turned  him  round  about, 

And  went  into  his  den, 
For  well  he  knew  the  silly  fly 

Would  soon  come  back  again : 
So  he  wove  a  subtle  web 

In  a  little  corner  sly, 
And  set  his  table  ready 

To  dine  upon  the  fly. 
Then  he  came  out  to  his  door  again, 

And  merrily  did  sing  : 
"  Come  hither,  hither,  pretty  fly 

With  the  pearl  and  silver  wing ; 
Your  robes  are  green  and  purple, 

There's  a  crest  upon  your  head ; 
Your  eyes  are  like  the  diamond  bright, 

But  mine  are  dull  as  lead." 


Alas !  alas  !  how  very  soon 

This  silly  little  fly, 
Hearing  his  wily,  flattering  words, 

Came  slowly  flitting  by  ! 
With  buzzing  wings  she  hung  aloft. 

Then  near  and  nearer  drew, 
Thinking  only  of  her  brilliant  eyes, 

And  her  green  and  purple  hue — 

Thinking  only  of  her  crested  head — 

Poor,  foolish  thing ! — At  last, 
Up  jumped  the  cunning  spider, 

And  fiercely  held  her  fast. 
He  dragged  her  up  his  winding  stair. 

Into  his  dismal  den, 
Within  his  little  parlor — 

But  she  ne'er  came  out  again  ! 

And  now,  dear  little  children, 

Who  may  this  story  read, 
To  idle,  silly,  flattering  words, 

I  pray  you,  ne'er  give  heed ! 
Unto  an  evil  counsellor 

Close  heart  and  ear  and  eye, 
And  take  a  lesson  from  this  tale 

Of  the  spider  and  the  fly. 

Mary  Howitt. 


A  COBWEB  MADE  TO  ORDER. 

A  hungry  spider  made  a  web 

Of  thread  so  very  fine, 
Your  tiny  fingers  scarce  could  feel 
The  little  slender  line. 

Round  about  and  round  about. 

And  round  about  it  spun, 
Straight  across,  and  back  again, 
Until  the*  web  was  done. 

Oh,  what  a  pretty,  shining  web 
It  was  when  it  was  done ! 

The  little  flies  all  came  to  see 
It  hanging  in  the  sun. 


ANIMALS   AjYD  BIRDS. 


2m 


Round  about  and  round  about, 
And  round  about  they  danced, 

Across  the  web,  and  back  again, 
They  darted  and  they  glanced. 

9  hungry  spider  sat  and  watched 
The  happy  little  flies ; 
It  saw  all  round  about  its  head, 
It  had  so  many  eyes. 

Round  about  and  round  about, 

And  round  about  they  go, 
Across  the  web,  and  back  again, 
Now  high — now  low. 

••  I'm  hungry,  very  hungry,1' 

Said  the  spider  to  a  fly. 
••  If  you  were  caught  within  the  web 
You  very  soon  should  die." 

But  round  about  and  round  about, 

And  round  about  once  more, 
Across  the  web,  and  back  again, 
They  flitted  as  before. 

For  all  the  flies  were  much  too  wise 

To  venture  near  the  spider ; 
They  flapped  their  little  wings,  and 
'flew 
In  circles  rather  wider. 

Round  about  and  round  about, 
And  round  about  went  they, 
Across  the  web,  and  back  again, 
And  then  they  flew  away. 

Aowt  Effie's  Rhymes. 


THE  HONEY-BEE'S  SONG. 

I  am  a  honey-bee, 

Buzzing  away 
Over  the  blossoms 

The  long  summer  day, 
Now  in  the  lily's  cup 

Drinking  my  fill, 


Now  where  the  roses  bloom 

Under  the  hill. 
Gayly  we  fly, 
My  fellows  and  I, 
Seeking  the  honey  our  hives  to  supply. 

Up  in  the  morning — 

No  laggards  are  we — 
Skimming  the  clover-tops 

Ripe  for  the  bee, 
Waking  the  flowers 

At  dawning  of  day, 
Ere  the  bright  sun 

Kiss  the  dewdrops  away. 
Merrily  singing, 
Busily  winging 
Back  to  the  hive  with  the  store  we  are 
bringing. 

No  idle  moments 

Have  we  through  the  day, 
No  time  to  squander 

-In  sleep  or  in  play. 
Summer  is  flying, 

And  we  must  be  sure 
Food  for  the  winter 

At  once  to  secure. 
Bees  in  a  hive 
Are  up  and  alive — 
Lazy  folks  never  can  prosper  or  thrive. 

Awake,  little  mortals ! 

No  harvest  for  those 
Who  waste  their  best  hours 

In  slothful  repose. 
Come  out ; — to  the  morning 

All  bright  things  belong — 
And  listen  a  while 

To  the  honey-bee's  song. 
Merrily  singing, 
Busily  winging, 
Industry  ever  its  own  reward  bring- 
ing. 


270 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  BEE. 

Buzz-z-z-z-z-z,  buzz ! 
This  is  the  song  of  the  bee ; 

His  legs  are  of  yellow, 

A  jolly  good  fellow, 
And  yet  a  great  worker,  is  he. 

In  days  that  are  sunny 
He's  getting  his  honey  ; 
In  days  that  are  cloudy 

He's  making  his  wax  ; 
On  pinks  and  on  lilies, 
And  gay  daffodillies, 
And  columbine  blossoms 

He  levies  a  tax. 

Buzz-z-z-z-z-z,  buzz ! 
The  sweet-smelling  clover 
He,  humming,  hangs  over ; 
The  scent  of  the  roses 

Makes  fragrant  his  wings ; 
He  never  gets  lazy : 
From  thistle  and  daisy, 
And  weeds  of  the  meadow, 

Some  treasure  he  brings. 

Buzz^z-z-z-z-z,  buzz ! 
From  morning's  first  gray  light, 
Till  fading  of  daylight, 
He's  singing  and  toiling 

The  summer  day  through. 
Oh  !  we  may  get  weary, 
And  think  work  is  dreary ; 
'Tis  harder  by  far 

To  have  nothing  to  do  ! 

Marian  Douglas. 


THE  LADY-BIRD  AND  THE  ANT. 

The  lady-bird  sat  in  the  rose's  heart, 
And  smiled  with  pride  and  scorn 

As  she  saw  a  plain-dressed  ant  go  by 
With  a  heavy  grain  of  corn. 


So  she  drew  the  curtains  of  damask 
round, 

And  adjusted  her  silken  vest, 
Making  her  glass  of  a  drop  of  dew 

That  lay  in  the  rose's  breast. 


Then  she  laughed  so  loud  that  the  ant 
looked  up, 

And,  seeing  her  haughty  face, 
Took  no  more  notice,  but  travelled  on 

At  the  same  industrious  pace. 
But  a  sudden  blast  of  autumn  came, 

And  rudely  swept  the  ground, 
And  down  the  rose  with  the  lady-bird 
bent 

And  scattered  its  leaves  around. 


Then  the  houseless  lady  was  much 
amazed, 
For  she  knew  not  where  to  go, 
And  hoarse  November's  early  blast 

Had  brought  with  it  rain  and  snow. 
Her  wings  were  chilled  and  her  feet 
were  cold, 
And  she  wished  for  the  ant's  warm 
cell; 
And  what  she  did  in  the  wintry  storm 
I  am  sure  I  cannot  tell. 


But  the  careful  ant  was  in  her  nest, 
With  her  little  ones  by  her  side ; 
She  taught  them  all  like  herself  to 
toil, 
Nor  mind  the  sneer  of  pride ; 
And  I  thought,  as  I  sat  at  the  close  of 
day, 
Eating  my  bread  and  milk, 
It  was  wiser  to  work  and  improve  my 
time 
Than  be  idle  and  dress  in  silk. 

Lydia  H.  Sigourney. 


ANIMALS   AND    BIRDS. 


271 


BUTTERFLY  BLUE  AND  GRASSHOPPER 
YELLOW. 

Butterfly    Blue    and    Grasshopper 

Yellow, 
A  gay  little  fop  and  a  spruce  little  fel- 
low ! 

A  sauntering  pair 
In  the  soft  summer  air. 
With  nothing  to  do,  either  ancient  «r 

new, 
But  to  bask  in  the  sunshine  or  pleas- 
ure pursue, 
Or  fatten  on  honey,  or  tipple  on  dew; 
And  constantly,  when 
They're  through  with  it,  then 
To  bask  and  to  eat  and  to  tipple  again ! 

Butterfly  Blue  and  Grasshopper  Yel- 
low, 

The  gay  young  sprig  and  the  jaunty 
young  fellow ! 


They're  always  arrayed  in  the  top  of 

the  fashion, 
For  Butterfly  Blue  for  dress  has  a  pas- 
sion ! 

And  Grasshopper  Yellow, 
The  fast  little  fellow, 
His  very  long  whiskers  and  legs  cuts  a 
dash  on ! 

And  so,  as  they  go, 
They  make  a  fine  show, 
And  each  thinks  himself  a  most  ex- 
quisite beau ! 

Is  there  any  one  here  like  Butterfly 
Blue  ? 

Not  you,  little  Laura,  nor  you.  little 
*Sue! 

Is  there  any  one  here  like  Grasshop- 
per Yellow  ? 

It  couldn't  be  Jack,  the  nice  little  fel- 
low ! 


272 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


And  yet  I  have  heard — 
I  give  you  my  word — 
That  somewhere  are  little  folks  quite  as 

absurd, 
Who  gaze  at  their  clothes  with  admir- 
ing eyes, 
And  would  rather  be  showy  than  use- 
ful and  wise ; 
Who  love  to  be  idle,  and  never  will 

think 
Of  anything  else  but  to  eat  and  to 
drink ! 

Not  you,  dears ;  oh  no ! 
It  couldn't  be  so ; 
This  moral  to  some  other  country  must 

go, 
For. all  of  our  children  are  splendid, 
we  know. 

Olive  A.  Wadsworth. 


THE  WASP  AND  THE  BEE. 
A  wasp  met  a  bee  that  was  buzzing 

by, 

And  he  said,  "  Little  cousin,  can  you 
tell  me  why 

You  are  loved  so  much  better  by  peo- 
ple than  I  ? 


"  My  back  shines  as  bright  and  yellow 

as  gold, 
And  my  shape  is  most  elegant,  too,  to 

behold ; 
Yet  nobody  likes  me  for  that,  I  am 

told." 

"  Ah,  cousin,"  the  bee  said,  "  'tis  all 

very  true ; 
But  if  I  had  half  as  much  mischief  to 

do, 
Indeed  they  would  love  me  no  better 

than  you. 


"  You  have  a  fine  shape  and  a  deli- 
cate wing ; 

They  own  you  are  handsome;  but 
then  there's  one  thing 

They  cannot  put  up  with,  and  that  is 
your  sting. 

"  My  coat  is  quite  homely  and  plain, 

as  you  see, 
Yet  nobody  ever  is  angry  with  me, 
Because  I'm  a  humble  and  innocent 

bee." 

From  this  little  story  let  people  be- 
ware, 

Because,  like  the  wasp,  if  ill-natured 
they  are, 

They  will  never  be  loved  if  they're 
ever  so  fair. 


THE  BUTTERFLY'S  BALL. 

Come,  take  up  your  hats,  and  away 
let  us  haste 

To  the  Butterfly's  ball  and  the  Grass- 
hopper's feast; 

The  trumpeter  Gad-fly  has  summoned 
the  crew, 

And  the  revels  are  now  only  waiting 
for  you. 

On  the  smooth -shaven   grass,  by  the 

side  of  a  wood, 
Beneath  a  broad  oak  which  for  ages 

had  stood, 
See   the   children   of  earth    and    the 

tenants  of  air 
For  an  evening's  amusement  together 

repair. 

And  there  came  the  Beetle,  so  blind 

and  so  black, 
Who  carried  the  Emmet,  his  friend,  on 

his  back ; 


ANIMALS   AND    BIRDS. 


273 


And   there   came  the  Gnat,  and  the 

Dragon-fly  too, 
And  all  their  relations,  green,  orange, 

and  blue. 

And  there  came  the  Moth  in  his 
plumage  of  down, 

And'  the  Hornet  in  jacket  of  yellow 
and  brown, 

Who  with  him  the  Wasp  his  compan- 
ion did  bring ; 

But  they  promised  that  evening  to  lay 
by  their  sting. 


From  one  branch  to  another  his  cob- 
web he  slung, 

Then  as  quick  as  an  arrow  he  darted 
along. 


But  just  in  the  middle,  oh,  shocking 

to  tell ! 
From    his   rope   in   an   instant   poor 

Harlequin  fell ; 
Yet  he  touched  not  the  ground,  but, 

with  talons  outspread, 
Hung  suspended  in  air  at  the  end  of 

a  thread. 


And  the  sly  little  Dormouse  crept  out 

of  his  hole, 
And  led  to  the  feast  his  blind  brother,  !  Then  the  Grasshopper  came,  with  a  jerk 

the  Mole ;  and  a  spring ; 

And  the  Snail,  with  his  horns  peeping    Very  long  was  his  leg,  though  but  short 

out  from  his  shell,  was  his  wing ; 

Came  from  a  great  distance — the  length    He  took  but  three  leaps,  and  was  soon 

of  an  ell.  out  of  sight, 

Then  chirped  his  own  praises  the  rest 
A  mushroom  their  table,  and  on  it  was  f  +j     nisht 

laid 
A  water-dock  leaf,  which  a  tablecloth 

made  ;  |  With  steps  quite  majestic  the  Snail  did 

The  viands  were  various,  to  each  of  |  advance, 

their  taste,  j  And  promised  the  gazers  a  minuet  to 

And  the  Bee  brought  his   honey   to  '  dance ; 

sweeten  the  feast.  But  they  all  laughed  so  loud  that  he 

pulled  in  his  head, 
There,  close  on  his  haunches,  so  sol-    And  W(mt  in  his  own  little  chamber  to 


bed. 


emn  and  wise, 
The  Frog  from  a  corner  looked  up  to 

the  skies ; 
And  the  Squirrel,  well  pleased   such    Then,  as  evening  gave  way  to  the  shad- 
diversion  to  see,  ows  of  night, 
Sat  cracking  his  nuts   overhead  in  a    Their  watchman,  the  Glow-worm,  came 
tree.  out  with  his  light ; 

Then  home  let  us  hasten,  while  yet  we 

can  see, 
For  no  watchman  is  waiting  for  you 
and  for  me. 


Then  out  came  a  Spider,  with  fingers 

so  fine, 
To  show  his  dexterity  on   the   tight 

line : 

18 


William  Roscoe. 


274 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


THE  BEES. 

Oh,  mother  dear,  pray  tell  me  where 

The  bees  in  winter  stay  ? 
The  flowers  are  gone  they  feed  upon, 

So  sweet  in  summer's  day. 

My  child,  they  live  within  the  hive, 

And  have  enough  to  eat ; 
Amid   the   storm   they're   clean   and 
warm, 

Their  food  is  honey  sweet. 

Say,  mother  dear,  how  came  it  there  ? 

Did  father  feed  them  so  ? 
I  see  no  way  in  winter's  day 

That  honey  has  to  grow. 

Xo,  no,  my  child  ;  in  summer  mild 
The  bees  laid  up  their  store 

Of  honey-drops  in  little  cups, 
Till  they  would  want  no  more. 

In    cups,    you    said — how    are    they 
made  ? 

Are  they  as  large  as  ours  ? 
Oh  no ;  they're  all  made  nice  and  small , 

Of  wax  found  in  the  flowers. 

Our  summer's  day,  to  work  and  play, 

Is  now  in  mercy  given, 
And  we  must  strive,  long  as  we  live, 

To  lay  up  stores  in  heaven. 

Hastings'  Nursery  Songs. 


Lady-bird,  lady-bird !  fly  away  home ! 
The    glow-worm    is    lighting    her 

lamp, 
The  dew's  falling  fast,  and  your  fine 

speckled  wings 
Will  flag  with  the  close-clinging  dam}). 

Lady-bird,  lady-bird !  fly  away  home ! 

Good  luck  if  you  reach  it  at  last ! 
The  owTs  come  abroad,  and  the  bat:s 
on  the  roam, 

Sharp  set  from  their  Ramazan  fast. 

Lady-bircl,  lady-bird !  fly  away  home ! 

The  fairy  bells  tinkle  afar  ! 
Make  haste,  or  they'll  catch  you,  and 
harness  you  fast 

With  a  cobweb  to  Oberon's  car. 

Lady-bird,  lady-bird!  fly  away  home! 
To  your  house  in  the    old    willow 
tree, 
■  Where  your  children  so  dear  have  in- 
vited the  ant 
And  a  few  cozy  neighbors  to  tea, 

,  Lady-bird,  lady-bird!  fly  away  home! 

And  if  not  gobbled  up  by  the  way, 

Nor  yoked  by  the  fairies  to  Oberon's 

car, 

You're  in  luck ! — and  that's  all  I've 

to  say. 

Caroline  Bowles  Southev. 


THE  GRASSHOPPER  AND  THE  ANT. 

TO  THE  LADY-BIRD.  A  GRASSHOPPER  having  sung 

Lady-bird,  lady-bird !  fly  away  home !  The  summer  long, 

The   field-mouse   has   gone  to   her  When  the  wintry  wind  blew 

nest,  Found  her  comforts  few — 

The  daisies  have  shut  up  their  sleepy  No  house  from  the  snow  and  sleet 

red  eyes,  To  guard  her ; 

And  the  bees  and  the  birds  are  at  Not  a  single  bit  to  eat 

rest.  In  her  larder. 


ANIMALS   AJVD    BIRDS. 


275 


Neither  worm-chop  nor  fly-leg ; 

The  dainty  dame  must  starve  or  heg. 

Hungry,  she  goes  to  her  neighbor  ant 

With  her  sad  tale  of  want : 

"  Pray  lend  me  from  your  store, 

Till  the  winter  is  o'er: 

On  my  faith,  I  will  pay 

Round  interest,  besides  the  loan/' 

The  ant — bad  lender,  I  must  own- 
Doubting  much  of  the  pay-day, 
Asks  of  the  borrowing  lady, 
"  What  did  you  do  last  summer  ?" 

"  Night  and  day  to  every  comer 
I  sang,  if  you  please." 

"  Sang ! — do  you  say  ? 
Then  finish  out  your  play — 
Dance  now  at  your  ease." 


THE  SILKWORM. 

Silkworm  on  the  mulberry  tree, 
Spin  a  silken  robe  for  me ; 
Draw  the  threads  out  fine  and  strong, 
Longer  yet — and  very  long ; 
Longer  yet — 'twill  not  be  done 
Till  a  thousand  more  are  spun. 
Silkworm,  turn  this  mulberry  tree 
Into  silken  threads  for  me  ! 

All  day  long,  and  many  a  day, 
Busy  silkworms  spin  away ; 
Some  are  ending,  some  beginning ; 
Nothing  thinking  of  but  spinning ! 
Well  for  them  !     Like-  silver  light, 
All  the  threads  are  smooth  and  bright ; 
Pure  as  day  the  silk  must  be, 
Woven  from  the  mulberry  tree  ! 

Ye  are  spinning  well  and  fast, ; 
'Twill  be  finished  all  at  last. 


Twenty  thousand  threads  are  drawn. 

Finer  than  the  finest  lawn  ; 

And  as  long  this  silken  twine, 

As  the  equinoctial  line  ! 

What  a  change  !     The  mulberry  tree 

Turneth  into  silk  for  me  ! 

Spinning  ever !  now  'tis  done, 
Silken  threads  enough  are  spun  ! 
Spinning,  they  will  spin  no  more — 
All  their  little  lives  are  o'er ! 
Pile  them  up — a  costly  heap  ! — 
Each  in  his  coffin  gone  to  sleep  ! 
Silkworm  on  the  mulberry  tree, 
Thou  hast  spun  and  died  for  me  ! 

Mary  Howitt. 


THE  DRAGON-FLY. 

With  wings  like  crystal  air. 

Dyed  with  the  rainbow's  dye, 
Fluttering  here  and  there, 
Prythee  tell  me,  Dragon-fly. 
Whence  thou  comest, 
Where  thou  roamest. 
Art  thou  of  the  earth  or  skv  ? 


'Mongst  plumes  of  meadow-sweet 

I  see  thee  glance  and  play, 
Or  light  with  airy  feet 
Upon  a  nodding  spray, 
Or,  sailing  slow, 
I  see  thee  go 
In  sunshine  far  away. 

Tell  me,  prythee,  Dragon-fly, 

What  and  'whence  thou  art? 
Whether  of  the  earth  or  sky, 
Or  of  flowers  a  part  ? 
And  who  together, 
This  fine  weather. 
Put  thee,  glorious  as  thou  art  ? 


276 


THE    CHILDREN'S    BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


He  maketh  no  reply, 

But  all  things  answer  loud, 
"  Who  formed  the  Dragon-fly 

Formed  sun,  and  sea,  and  cloud — 
Formed  flower  and  tree, 
Formed  me  and  thee, 
With  nobler  gifts  endowed." 

Save  for  the  Eternal  Thought, 

Bright  shape,  thou  hadst  not  been ; 
He  from  dull  matter  wrought 
Thy  purple  and  thy  green, 
And  made  thee  take, 
E'en  for  my  sake, 
Thy  beauty  and  thy  sheen. 

Mary  Howitt. 

THE  LITTLE  FISH. 

"  Dear  mother,"  said  a  little  fish, 

"  Pray,  is  not  that  a  fly  ? 
I'm  very  hungry,  and  I  wish 

You'd  let  me  go  and  try." 


"  Sweet  innocent,"  the  mother  cried, 
And  started  from  her  nook, 

"  That  horrid  fly  is  put  to  hide 
The  sharpness  of  the  hook." 

Now,  as  I've  heard,  this  little  trout 
Was  young  and  foolish  too, 

And  so  he  thought  he'd  venture  out 
To  see  if  it  were  true. 

And  round  about  the  hook  he  played 
With  many  a  longing  look, 

And,  "  Dear  me !"  to  himself  he  said, 
"  I'm  sure  that's  not  a  hook. 

"  I  can  but  give  one  little  pluck  : 

Let's  see,  and  so  I  will." 
So  on  he  went,  and  lo !  it  stuck 

Quite  through  his  little  gill. 

And  as  he  faint  and  fainter  grew, 
With  hollow  voice  he  cried, 

"  Dear  mother,  had  I  minded  you 
I  need  not  now  have  died." 


J* 


TREES  AND   FLOWERS. 


Trees  and  Flowers 


v%; 


ALL  THINGS  BEAUTIFUL. 

All  things  bright  and  beautiful. 
All  creatures  great  and  small, 

All  things  wise  and  wonderful,— 
The  Lord  God  made  them  all. 

Each  little  flower  that  opens, 
Each  little  bird  that  sings, — 

He  made  their  glowing  colors, 
He  made  their  tiny  wings. 


The  purple-headed  mountain, 
The  river  running  by, 

The  morning,  and  the  sunset 
That  lighteth  up  the  sky ; 


The  tall  trees  in  the  greenwood, 
The  pleasant  summer  sun, 

The  ripe  fruits  in  the  garden, — 
He  made  them  every  one. 

279 


280 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


He  gave  us  eyes  to  see  them, 
And  lips,  that  we  might  tell 

How  great  is  God  Almighty, 
Who  hath  made  all  things  well. 

John  Keble. 


A  LITTLE  GIRL'S  FANCIES. 

0  little  flowers,  you  love  me  so, 

You  could  not  do  without  me; 
0  little  birds  that  come  and  go, 

You  sing  sweet  songs  about  me ; 
0  little  moss,  observed  by  few, 

That  round  the  tree  is  creeping, 
You  like  my  head  to  rest  on  you 

When  I  am  idly  sleeping. 

0  rushes  by  the  river-side, 

You  bow  when  I  come  near  you ; 
0  fish,  you  leap  about  with  pride, 

Because  you  think  I  hear  you ; 
0  river,  you  shine  clear  and  bright 

To  tempt  me  to  look  in  you  ; 
O  water-lilies,  pure  and  white, 

You  hope  that  I  shall  win  you. 

0  pretty  things,  you  love  me  so, 

I  see  I  must  not  leave  you ; 
You'd  find  it  very  dull,  I  know — 

I  should  not  like  to  grieve  you. 
Don't  wrinkle  up,  you  silly  moss ; 

My  flowers,  you  need  not  shiver  ; 
My  little  buds,  don't  look  so  cross ; 

Don't  talk  so  loud,  my  river. 

I'm  telling  you  I  will  not  go — 

It's  foolish  to  feel  slighted ; 
It's  rude  to  interrupt  me  so— 

You  ought  to  be  delighted. 
Ah  !  now  you're  growing  good,  I  see, 

Though  anger  is  beguiling : 
The  pretty  blossoms  nod  at  me, 

I  see  a  robin  smiling. 


And  I  will  make  a  promise,  dears, 

That  will  content  you,  maybe : 
I'll  love  you  through  the  happy  years 

Till  I'm  a  nice  old  lady. 
True  love,  like  yours  and  mine,  they 
say, 

Can  never  think  of  ceasing, 
But  }rear  by  year,  and  day  by  day, 

Keep  steadily  increasing. 


THE  USE  OF  FLOWERS. 

God  might  have  bade  the  earth  bring 
forth 

Enough  for  great  and  small, 
The  oak  tree  and  the  cedar  tree, 

Without  a  flower  at  all. 
We  might  have  had  enough,  enough, 

For  every  want  of  ours, 
For  luxur}^  medicine,  and  toil, 

And  yet  have  had  no  flowers. 


Then  wherefore,  wherefore  were  they 
made, 

All  dyed  with  rainbow  light, 
All  fashioned  with  supremest  grace, 

Upspringing  day  and  night — 
Springing  in  valleys  green  and  low. 

And  on  the  mountains  high, 
And  in  the  silent  wilderness 

Where  no  man  passes  by  ? 

Our  outward  life  requires  them  not — 

Then  wherefore  had  they  birth  ? 
To  minister  delight  to  man, 

To  beautify  the  earth  ; 
To  comfort  man — to  whisper  hope 

Whene'er  his  faith  is  dim, 
For  Who  so  careth  for  the  flowers 

Will  care  much  more  for  him  ! 

Mary  Howitt. 


TREES   AND    FLOWERS. 


281 


THE  WORLD. 

Great,    wide,    beautiful,    wonderful 

World, 
With  the  wonderful  water  around  you 

curled. 
And    the   wonderful    grass    on   your 

breast- 
World,  you  are  beautifully  dressed. 

The  wonderful  air  is  over  me. 

And  the  wonderful  wind  is  shaking 

the  tree; 
It  walks  on  the  water,  and  whirls  the 

mills, 
And  talks  to  itself  on  the  tops  of  the 

hills. 

You  friendly  Earth,  how  far  do  you 

go 
With  the  wheat-fields  that  nod  and 

the  rivers  that  flow. 
With  cities,  and  gardens,  and  cliffs. 

and  isles, 
And  people  upon  you  for  thousands 

of  miles  ? 


Ah !  you  are  so  great,  and  I  am  so 
small, 

I  tremble  to  think  of  you.  World,  at 
all; 

And  yet,  when  I  said  my  prayers  to- 
day, 

A  whisper  inside  me  seemed  to  say. 

'■  You  are  more  than  the  Earth,  though 
you  are  such  a  dot : 

You  can  love  and  think,  and  the  Eartli 
cannot !" 

Lilliput  Lectures. 


THE  GARDENER'S  GRANDCHILD. 

"  Which  is  the  queen  of  the  roses  ? 

Gardener,  can  you  tell  ?" 
"  Oh,  the  queen  of  the  roses   to  m< 
sir, 

Is  my  own  little  grandchild  Nell. 

"  She  waters  the  flowers  for  me,  sir. 

She  carries  them  out  to  sell ; 
Xot  one  is  so  bright  to  me.  sir. 

As  my  own  little  grandchild  Nell. 


282 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


"She  works  in  my  garden  too,  sir; 
She  weeds  in  the  shady  dell, 
Where  the  violets  and  the  lilies 
Blossom  around  my  Nell. 

"  I  love  the  flowers  I've  tended 
More  years  than  I  can  tell ; 
Geranium,  Sweet  Pea,  Fuchsia, 
Jessamine,  Gentianelle, 


"  Salvia  and  China  Aster, 

Heliotrope,  Heather-Bell ; 
My  flowers  have  been  my  treasures, 

Next  to  my  grandchild  Nell. 

"  But  the   Rose   is  the  queen  of  the 
flowers, 

As  every  one  can  tell ; 
And  she  is  the  queen  of  the  roses, 

My  own  granddaughter  Nell." 

Mrs.  Hawtkey. 


OUR  FLOWERS. 

Oh,  Maggie  loves  the  lily  fair ! 

And  Annie  loves  the  rose  ; 
But  John  and  I,  and  Willie  too, 

Love  every  flower  that  blows. 

We  love  the  golden  buttercup, 
We  love  the  daisy  white  ; 

The  violet  blooming  in  the  shade, 
And  the  roses  in  the  light ; 


The  wall-flower  and  the  marigold, 
And  the  pretty  London-bride ; 

And   the  blue-bell  hanging  down  its 
head, 
Its  laughing  eve  to  hide  ; 


And  the  hollyhock  that  turns  about 

Its  head  to  seek  the  sun ; 
Oh,  dearly  do  we  love  the  flowers, 

And  we  love  them  every  one. 


TREES   AMD    FLOWERS. 


283 


Far  better  than  our  painted  toys, 
Though  gilded  bright  and  gay, 

We  love  the  gentle  flowers  that  bloom 
In  the  sunny  summer  day. 

For  it  is  God  who  made  the  flowers, 

And  careth  for  them  all ; 
And  for  our  heavenly  Father's  love 

There  is  not  one  too  small. 

He  tans  them  with  the  gentle  wind, 
He  feeds  them  with  the  dew ; 

And    the    God   who   loves   the    little 
flowers 
Loves  little  children  too. 

Youth's  Companion. 


NEW  DRESSES. 

New  dresses  ?     Ay,  this  is  the  season ! 

For  opening  clay  is  close  by  : 
Already  I  know  the  "Spring  fashions" — 

Can  tell  you,  I  think,  if  I  try. 

Of  colors,  the  first  thing  to  mention, 
There's  a  great  variety  seen ; 

But  that  which  obtains  the  most  favor 
Is  surely  a  very  bright  green. 

True,  the  elderly  portion  are  plainer, 
And   choose,  both  in  country   and 
town, 
To  appear  in  the   shades  which   are 
sombre, 
And  keep  on  the  garments  of  brown. 

Miss  Snow-drop,  the  first  of  the  season, 

Comes  out  in  such  very  good  taste — 

Pure   white,    with    her   pretty    green 

trimmings  ; 

How   charming   she   is !    and   how 

chaste ! 

Miss  Crocus,  too,  shows  very  early 
Her  greetings  of  love  for  the  sun, 


And  comes  in  her  white,  blue,  or  yel- 
low ; 
All  dresses  of  hers  are  home-spun. 

And    who   is    this    handsome   young 
master, 
A  friend  to  Miss  Crocus  so  true  ? 
He  comes  dressed  in  purple  or  yellow, 
And  sometimes  in  pink,  white,  and 
blue. 

In  form  he  is  tall  and  majestic; 

Ah  !  the  Spring  has  just  whispered 
his  name  : 
"  Hyacinthus,"  the  beau  of  the  season, 
And   sweet  and  widespread  is  his 
fame. 

Madame  Tulip,  a  dashing  gay  lady, 
Appears  in  a  splendid  brocade ; 

She  courts  the  bright  sunbeams,  which 
give  her 
All  colors,  of  every  shade. 

She  came  to  us  o'er  the  wide  ocean, 
Away  from  her  own  native  air, 

But  if  she  can  dress  as  she  chooses, 
She  can  be  quite  at  home  anywhere. 

Narcissus,  a  very  vain  fellow, 

Has  a  place  in  the  Spring  fashions 
too  — 
Appears  in  his  green,  white,  and  yel- 
low ; 
In  his  style,  though,  there's  nothing 
that's  new. 

Miss  Daisy  wears  white,  with  fine  flut- 
in°"  ■ 
A  sweet  little  creature  is  she, 
But  she  loves  the   broad  fields    and 
green  meadows, 
And  cares  not  town  fashions  to  see. 


284 


THE    CHILDREN'S    BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


Another  style,  pretty  and  tasteful — 
Green,  clotted  with  purple  or  blue — 

Is  worn  by  Miss  Myrtle,  whose  beauty 
In  shade  and  retirement  grew. 

I've  borrowed  these  styles  from  Dame 
Nature, 
Whose    children    are    always   well 
dressed : 
In  contrast  and  blending  of  colors 
She  always  knows  what  is  the  best. 

Already  her  hand  is  arranging 

More  elaborate  trimmings  for  May  ; 

In  silence  unseen  it  is  working, 
Accomplishing  much  every  day. 

Her  "  full  dress  "  and  festive  occasion 
Will  take  place  quite  early  in  June, 

Ushered  in  by  low  notes  of  sweet  music, 
Which  her  song-birds  alone  can  at- 
tune. 

S.  H.  Bakek. 


THE  FETE-DAY  OF  THE  FLOWERS. 

'Twas  whispered  all  about  the  garden, 

One  bright  summer  afternoon, 
That  Moss  Rose  would  have  a  fete-day 

In  the  lovely  month  of  June. 
Soon  came  round  the  invitations, 

Brought  by  zephyrs  to  each  flower ; 
What  commotion  and  what  talking 

In  each  corner,  bed,  and  bower ! 
Moss  Rose  looked  the  Queen  of  Beauty, 

Two  sweet  daughters  by  her  side, 
And  her  cousin,  Rose  of  Provence, 

Dressed  in  white,  a  blushing  bride. 
Proud  Lilies  came,  by  Pinks  escorted, 

Larkspurs  flirted  with  Sweet  Peas, 
Mignonette  and  gentle  Daisies, 

Whom'  old    Monkshood    loves   to 
tease ; 


Coreopsis,  gay  and  cheerful, 

Chatted  with  the  Mourning  Bride, 

And  the  dismal  Love-lies-bleeding 
Danced  with  dashing  London  Pride. 

Sweet  Williams  wratched  the  pensive 
Lupines ; 

Lovely  Violets,  dressed  in  blue, 
Came  with  the  Lilies-of-the- Valley, 

Guarded  by  sober  Sage  and  Rue. 
Asters  from  China  grew  quite  social, 

Dancing  with  Canterbury  Bells  ; 
Indian  Pinks  and  Mountain  Laurels 

Petted  the  Gentians  from  the  dells  ; 
In  his  scarlet  hat  quite  gorgeous 

Came  the  Cardinal  Lobelia ; 
Cross  Snap-Dragon  saw  him  whisper 

More  than  once  to  fair  Camellia. 
Every  Rose  that  graced  the  garden — 

Wild  country  ones,  and  Brier  sweet, 
From  distant  lands  and  over  oceans — 

Came  their  lovely  queen  to  greet. 
Glorious  shone  the  sun  above  them, 

Winged  with  pleasure  flew  the  hours ; 
Edith  saw  and  tells  the  story 

Of  the  fete-day  of  the  flowers. 


LITTLE  WHITE  LILY. 

Little  white  Lily 

Sat  by  a  stone, 
Drooping  and  waiting 

Till  the  sun  shone. 
Little  White  Lily 

Sunshine  has  fed ; 
Little  white  Lily 

Is  lifting  her  head. 

Little  white  Lily 
Said,  "  It  is  good ; 

Little  white  Lily's 
Clothing-  and  food." 


T11EES   AjYD    FLOWERS. 


285 


Little  white  Lily, 
Drest  like  a  bride, 

Shining  with  whiteness, 
And  crowned  beside ! 

Little  white  Lily 

Droopeth  with  pain, 
Waiting  and  waiting 

For  the  wet  rain. 
Tittle  white  Lily 

Holdeth  her  eup ; 
Rain  is  fast  falling, 

And  filling  it  up. 

Little  white  Lily 
Said,  "  Good  again, 


When  I  am  thirsty 

To  have  fresh  rain ! 
Now  I  am  stronger ; 

Now  I  am  cool ; 
Heat  cannot  burn  me, 

My  veins  are  so  full." 

Little  white  Lily 

Smells  very  sweet : 
On  her  head  sunshine, 

Rain  at  her  feet. 
Thanks  to  the  sunshine, 

Thanks  to  the  rain  ! 
Little  white  Lily 

Is  happy  again!" 

George  Macdonald. 


FLOWERS. 

With  what  a  lavish  hand 
God  beautifies  the  earth, 

When  everywhere,  all  o'er  the  land, 
Sweet  flowers  are  peeping  forth  ! 

Down  by  the  babbling  brook, 
Up  in  the  silent  hills, 


The     glen,    the     bower,    the     shady 
nook, 
Their  breath  with  fragrance  fills. 

They  creep  along  the  hedge, 
They  climb  the  rugged  height, 

And,  leaning  o'er  the  water's  edge, 
Blush  in  their  own  sweet  light. 


286 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


They  seem  to  breathe  and  talk, 

They  pour  into  my  ear, 
Where'er  I  look,  where'er  I  walk, 

A  music  soft  and  clear. 

They  have  no  pride  of  birth, 
No  choice  of  regal  bower ; 

The  humblest,  lowliest  spot  on  earth 
May  claim  the  fairest  flower. 


LILY'S  BALL. 

Lily  gave  a  party, 

And  her  little  playmates  all, 
Gayly  drest,  came  in  their  best, 

To  dance  at  Lily's  ball. 

Little  Quaker  Primrose 

Sat  and  never  stirred, 
And,  except  in  whispers, 

Never  spoke  a  word. 

Tulip  fine  and  Dahlia 

Shone  in  silk  and  satin ; 
Learned  old  Convolvulus 

Was  tiresome  with  his  Latin. 

Snowdrop  nearly  fainted 
Because  the  room  was  hot, 

And  went  away  before  the  rest 
With  sweet  Forget-me-not. 

Pansy  danced  with  Daffodil, 

Rose  with  Violet ; 
Silly  Daisy  fell  in  love 

With  pretty  Mignonette. 

But  when  they  danced  the  country' 
dance, 

One  could  scarcely  tell 
Which  of  these  two  danced  it  best — 

Cowslip  or  Heatherbell. 

Between  the  dances,  when  they  all 
Were  seated  in  their  places, 


I  thought  I'd  never  seen  before 
So  many  pretty  faces. 

But,  of  all  the  pretty  maidens 

I  saw  at  Lily's  ball, 
Darling  Lily  was  to  me 

The  sweetest  of  them  all. 

And  when  the  dance  was  over, 
They  went  down  stairs  to  sup, 

And  each  had  a  taste  of  honey-cake, 
With  dew  in  a  buttercujD. 

And  all  were  dressed  to  go  away 

Before  the  set  of  sun  ; 
And  Lily  said  "  Good-b}re,"  and  gave 

A  kiss  to  every  one. 

And  before  the  moon  or  a  single  star 

Was  shining  overhead, 
Lily  and  all  her  little  friends 

Were  fast  asleep  in  bed. 


THE  LILY-OF-THE-VALLEY. 

There's  a  little  fiow'ret, 

White  and  pure  as  snow, 
Hides  within  the  woodland, 

White,  snow-white,  bending 
Modestly  it  hideth 

In  the  shady  dell, 
But  its  habitation 

Soon  each  child  can  tell ; 
For  around  its  dwelling 

There's  a  fragrance  shed, 
So  that  we  can  find  it, 

Though  it  hides  its  head. 
Thus  good  deeds  in  secret, 

Acts  of  quiet  worth, 
Though  no  praise  awarded, 

Show  their  merit  forth — 
Like  the  little  fiow'ret 

Shed  a  fragrance  round. 


TREES   A. YD    FLOW E US. 


287 


Whereby,  soon  or  later, 
They  are  surely  found. 

Lilies  in  the  valley, 
Growing  pure  and  bright, 

Fragrant,  fresh,  and  lowly, 
Clad  in  modest  white  ; 


Of  that  good,  an  emblem 
Ye  to  me  afford, 

Which  still  grows  in  secret. 
Seeking  no  reward. 

Rhyme  and  Reason. 


BUTTERCUPS  AND  DAISIES. 
Buttercups  and  Daisies — 

Oh.  the  pretty  flowers  ! 
Cuming  ere  the  spring-time, 

To  tell  of  sunny  hours. 
While  the  trees  are  leafless, 

While  the  fields  are  bare, 
Buttercups  and  Daisies 

Spring  up  everywhere. 

Ere  the  snow-drop  peepeth, 

Ere  the  crocus  bold, 
Ere  the  early  primrose 

Opes  its  paly  gold, 
Somewhere  on  a  sunny  bank 

Buttercups  are  bright, 
Somewhere  'mong  the  frozen  grass 

Peeps  the  daisy  white. 


Little  hardy  flowers, 

Like  to  children  poor, 
Playing  in  their  sturdy  health 

By  their  mother's  door  ; 
Purple  with  the  north  wind. 

Yet  alert  and  bold. 
Fearing  not.  and  caring  not, 

Though  they  be  a-cold. 

What  to  them  is  weather  ? 

What  are  stormy  showers  ? 
Buttercups  and  Daisies 

Are  these  human  flowers  ! 
He  who  gave  them  hardship 

And  a  life  of  care, 
Gave  them  likewise  hardy  strength. 

And  patient  hearts  to  bear. 


288 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


Welcome,  yellow  Buttercups, 

Welcome,  Daisies  white ! 
Ye  are  in  my  spirit 

Visioned,  a  delight! 
Coming  ere  the  spring-time 

Of  sunny  hours  to  tell, 
Speaking  to  our  hearts  of  Him 

Who  doeth  all  things  well. 

Mary  Howitt. 


LITTLE  DANDELION. 

Little  bud  Dandelion 

Hears  from  her  nest, 
"  Merry  heart,  starry  eye, 

Wake  from  your  rest !" 
Wide  ope  the  emerald  lids  ; 

Robin's  above ; 
Wise  little  Dandelion 

Smiles  at  his  love. 

Cold  lie  the  daisy-banks, 

Clad  but  in  green, 
Where  in  the  Mays  agone 

Bright  hues  were  seen. 
Wild  pinks  are  slumbering, 

Violets  delay — 
True  little  Dandelion 

Greeteth  the  May. 

Meek  little  Dandelion 

Groweth  more  fair, 
Till  dries  the  amber  dew 

Out  from  her  hair. 
High  rides  the  thirsty  sun, 

Fiercely  and  high, — 
Faint  little  Dandelion 

Closeth  her  eye. 

Dead  little  Dandelion, 
In  her  white  shroud, 

Heareth  the  angel-breeze 
Call  from  the  cloud. 


Tiny  plumes  fluttering 

Make  no  delay, 
Little  winged  Dandelion 

Soareth  away. 

Helen  Louisa  Bostwick. 


READY  FOR  DUTY. 

Daffy-down-dilly  came  up   in   the 

cold, 
Through  the  brown  mould, 
Although    the    March    breezes    blew 

keen  on  her  face, 
Although  the  white  snow  lay  on  many 

a  place. 

Daffy-down-dilly    had    heard    under 

ground 
The  sweet  rushing  sound 
Of  the  streams  as  they  burst  off  their 

white  winter  chains, 
Of  the  whistling  spring  winds  and  the 

pattering  rains. 

"  Now,   then,"    thought    Daffy,   deep 

down  in  her  heart, 
"  It 's  time  I  should  start." 
So  she  pushed  her  soft  leaves  through 

the  hard-frozen  ground 
Quite  up  to  the  surface,  and  then  she 

looked  round. 

There  was  snow  all  about  her,  gray 
clouds  overhead, 
The  trees  all  looked  dead  : 
Then  how  do  you  think  Daffy-down- 
dilly  felt, 
When  the  sun  would  not  shine  and 
the  ice  would  not  melt? 

"  Cold  weather !"  thought  Daffy,  still 
working  away  ; 
"  The  earth's  hard  to-day. 


TREES   AND    FLOWERS. 


289 


There's  but  a  half  inch  of  my  leaves 

to  be  seen, 
And  two-thirds  of  that  is  more  yellow 

than  green. 

"  I  can't  do  much  yet,  but  I "11  do  what 

I  can. 
It's  well  I  began, 
For  unless  I  can  manage  to  lift  up  my 

head, 
The  people  will  think  .Spring  herself 's 

dead." 

80,  little  by  little,  she   brought   her 
leaves  out, 
All  clustered  about ; 

And  then  her  bright  flowers  began  to 
unfold, 

Till  Daffy  stood  robed  in  her  spring- 
green  and  gold. 

0  Daffy-down-dilly,  so  brave  and  so 
true ! 
I  wish  all  were  like  you, 
So  ready  for  duty  in  all  sorts  of  weather, 
And  holding  forth  courage  and  beauty 
together. 

Miss  Warner. 


THE  VIOLET. 

Down  in  a  green  and  shady  bed 

A  modest  violet  grew ; 
Its  stalk  was  bent,  it  hung  its  head, 

As  if  to  hide  from  view. 

And  yet  it  was  a  lovely  flower. 

Its  color  bright  and  fair ; 
It  might  have  graced  a  rosy  bower. 

Instead  of  hiding  there. 

Yet  thus  it  was  content  to  bloom, 

In  modest  tints  arrayed, 
And  there  diffused  its  sweet  perfume 

Within  the  silent  shade. 

19 


Then  let  me  to  the  valley  go 

This  pretty  flower  to  see, 

That  I  may  also  learn  to  grow 

In  sweet  humility. 

Jane  Taylor. 

LITTLE  SWEET  PEA. 

Of  all  the  flowers  the  summer  brings, 
Little  Sweet  Pea  with  unfolded  wings, 
And   a  delicate   fragrance  that  from 
them  springs, 
Is  sweetest  and  best  to  me. 

Her  sober  brown  seeds  in  the  ground 

I  place, 
Then  wait  for  the  sight  of  her  cheery 

face 
And  little  tendrils  with  clinging  grace, 
A  pleasant  sight  to  see. 

Little  Sweet  Pea  is  brave  and  bold  : 
Early   she   lifts    her  head   from   the 

mould ; 
And,  though  the  winds  are  searching 

and  cold. 
Never  a  fear  has  she. 

Though  April  laughs  and  cries  like  a 

child, 
And  even  May  can  be  rude  and  wild, 
She  knows  that  June  will  be  friendly 

and  mild, 
So  she  toils  on  patiently. 


290 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


Her   neighbors   all   are   at   her  com- 
mand, 

Glad  to  offer  a  helping  hand  ; 

"You  are  young,"  they  whisper,  "  alone 
to  stand : 
"  Lean  upon  me,"  "  And  me." 

She  clasps  their  fingers  upon  her  way, 
And  so  climbs  upward,  day  by  day, 
Till  June,  with  a  steady,  comforting 
ray, 
Cheers  the  heart  of  Sweet  Pea; 

And  makes  it  so  glad  and  happy  and 

light 
That  she  breaks  into  blossoms  fragrant 

and  bright, 
Like  rosy  butterflies  ready  for  flight, 
A  joy  to  all  who  see. 

Constant  and  true  is  Sweet  Pea,  and 

though 
Early  to  come,  she  is  late  to  go. 
She  stays  till  the  clouds  are   heavy 

with  snow, 
And  all  alone  is  she. 

She  shivers  with  cold  in  the  autumn 

gale, 
Her   wings   arc   turning   purple   and 

pale, 
The  strength  departs  from  her  fingers 

frail ; 
"  It  is  time  to  go,"  says  she. 

The  loving  friends  that  helped  her  to 

rise 
Look  in  her  face  with  sorrowful  eyes. 
"  I  will  come  back  again,"  she  cries  ; 
"  Good-bye,"  says  little  Sweet  Pea. 

E.-  P.  Utter. 


THE  ILL-NATURED  BRIER. 

Little  Miss  Brier  came  out  of  the 

ground ; 
She  put  out  her  thorns,  and  scratched 
everything  'round. 
"  I'll  just  try,"  said  she, 
"  How  bad  I  can  be  ; 
At    pricking   and   scratching,   there's 
few  can  match  me." 

Little  Miss  Brier  was  handsome  and 

bright, 
Her  leaves  were  dark  green,  and  her 
flowers  were  pure  white ; 
But  all  who  came  nigh  her 
Were  so  worried  by  her 
They'd  go  out  of  their  way  to  keep 
clear  of  the  Brier. 

Little  Miss  Brier  was  looking  one  day 
At  her  neighbor,  the  violet,  over  the 
way  ; 
"  I  wonder,"  said  she, 
"That  no  one  pets  me, 
While  all  seem  so  glad  little  Violet  to 
see." 

A  sober  old  Linnet,  who  sat  on  a  tree. 
Heard  the  speech   of  the  Brier,  and 
tli  us  answered  he  : 
'•  'Tis  not  that  she's  fair, 
For  you  may  compare 
In    beaut}-,   with    even    Miss    Violet 
there  ; 

"  But  Violet  is  always  so  pleasant  and 

kind, 
So  gentle  in  manner,  so   humble  in 
mind, 

E'en  the  worms  at  her  feet 
She  would  never  ill-treat, 
And  to  Bird,  Bee,  and   Butterfly  al- 
ways is  sweet." 


TREES   AXD    FLO  WEES. 


291 


The    gardener's   wife    just    then    the 
pathway  came  down, 

And   the    mischievous    Brier   caught 
hold  of  her  gown  ; 
"  Oh  dear  !  what  a  tear  ! 
My  gown's  spoiled,  I  declare. 

That  troublesome    Brier ! — it  has  no 
business  there  ; 

Here,  John,  grub  it  up,  throw  it  into 
the  fire;" 

And    that    was   the   end   of    the    ill- 
natured  Brier. 

A^'NA  Bache. 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  GRASS. 

Here  I  come  creeping,  creeping  every- 
where ; 

By  the  dusty  roadside, 

On  the  sunny  hillside, 

Close  by  the  noisy  brook, 

In  every  shady  nook, 
I  come  creeping,  creeping  everywhere. 

Here  I  come  creeping,  smiling  every- 
where ; 

All  round  the  open  door, 

Where  sit  the  aged  poor  ; 

Here  where  the  children  play, 

In  the  bright  and  merry  May, 
I  come  creeping,  creeping  even-where. 

Here  I  come  creeping,  creeping  everv- 
where  ; 

In  the  noisy  city  street 

My  pleasant  face  you'll  meet, 

Cheering  the  sick  at  heart 

Toiling  his  busy  part — 
Silently  creeping,  creeping  everywhere. 

Here  I  come  creej)ing,  creeping  everv- 
where ; 
You  cannot  see  me  coming, 
Nor  hear  my  low  sweet  humming; ; 


For  in  the  starry  night, 
And  the  glad  morning  light, 
I  come  quietly  creeping  everywhere. 

Here  I  come  creeping,  creeping  every- 
where, 

More  welcome  than  the  flowers 
In  summer's  pleasant  hours  ; 
The  gentle  cow  is  glad, 
And  the  merry  bird  not  sad, 
To  see  me  creeping,  creeping  every- 
where. 

Here  I  come  creeping,  creeping  every- 
where; 
When  you're  numbered  with  the  dead 
In  your  still  and  narrow  bed. 
In  the  happy  spring  I'll  come 
And  deck  your  silent  home — 

Creeping,  silently  creeping  everywhere. 

Here  I  come  creeping,  creeping  every- 
where ; 

My  humble  song  of  praise 

Most  joyfully  I  raise 

To  Him  at  whose  command 

I  beautify  the  land, 
Creeping,  silently  creeping  everywhere. 

Sarah  Roberts. 


CORN. 

There  is  a  plant  you  often  see 

In  gardens  and  in  fields  ; 
Its    stalk    is    straight,    its    leaves    are 
long, 

And  precious  fruit  it  yields. 

The    fruit    when    young    is    soft    and 
white, 

And  closely  wrapped  in  green. 
And  tassels  hang  from  every  ear, 

Which  children  love  to  glean. 


292 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


But  when  the  tassels  fade  awa}', 

The  fruit  is  ripe  and  old ; 
It  peeps  from  out  the  wrapping  dry 

Like  beads  of  yellow  gold. 

The  fruit  when  young  we  boil   and 
roast, 
When  old,  we  grind  it  well. 
Now   think    of    all    the.  plants    you 
know, 
And  try  its  name  to  tell. 


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THE  TREE. 

The  Tree's  early  leaf-buds  were  burst- 
ing their  brown  : 
"Shall  I  take  them  away?"  said  the 
Frost,  sweeping  down. 
"  No,  leave  them  alone 
Till  the  blossoms  have  grown." 
Prayed  the  Tree,  while   he  trembled 
from  rootlet  to  crown. 

The  Tree  bore  his  blossoms,  and  all 

the  birds  sung : 
''  Shall  I  take  them  away  ?"  said  the 

Wind  as  he  swung. 


"  No,  leave  them  alone 
Till  the  berries  have  grown,1* 
Said  the  Tree,  while  his  leaflets  quiv- 
ering hung. 

The  Tree  bore  his  fruit  in  the  mid- 
summer glow : 
Said  the  girl,  "  May  I  gather  thy  ber- 
ries now?" 
"  Yes,  all  thou  canst  see  : 
Take  them  :  all  are  for  thee," 
Said  the  Tree,  while  he  bent  down  his 

laden  boughs  low. 

Bjornstje'rne  Bjornson. 


WOODMAN,  SPARE  THAT  TREE! 

Woodman,  spare  that  tree ! 

Touch  not  a  single  bough ! 
In  youth  it  sheltered  me, 

And  I'll  protect  it  now. 
Twas  my  forefather's  hand 

That  placed  it  near  his  cot ; 
There,  woodman,  let  it  stand, 

Thj'  axe  shall  harm  it  not. 

That  old  familiar  tree, 

Whose  glory  and  renown 
Are  spread  o'er  land  and  sea — 

And  wouldst  thou  hew  it  down? 
Woodman,  forbear  thy  stroke  ! 

Cut  not  its  earth-bound  ties ; 
Oh,  spare  that  aged  oak. 

Now  towering  to  the  skies ! 

When  but  an  idle  boy 

I  sought  its  grateful  shade ; 
In  all  their  gushing  joy 

Here,  too,  my  sisters  played. 
My  mother  kissed  me  here, 

My  father  pressed  my  hand — 
Forgive  this  foolish  tear, 

But  let  that  old  oak  stand ! 


TREES   AJVD    FLOWERS. 


203 


My  heart  strings  round  thee  cling 

Close  as  thy  bark,  old  friend ! 
Here  shall  the  wild  bird  sing, 

And  still  thy  branches  bend. 
Old  tree  !  the  storm  still  brave  ! 

And,  woodman,  leave  the  spot ; 
While  I've  a  hand  to  save, 

Thy  axe  shall  harm  it  not ! 

George  P.  Morris. 

THE  OLD  APPLE  TREE. 
I'm  fond  of  the  good  apple  tree; 
A  very  good-natured  friend  is  he, 
For,  knock  at  his  door  whene'er  you 

may, 
He's  always  something  to  give  away. 

Shake  him  in  winter :  on  all  below 
He'll  send  down  a  shower  of  feathery 

snow  ; 
And  when  the  spring  sun  is  shining 

bright, 
He'll   fling  down  blossoms  pink  and 

white. 

And  when  the  summer  comes  so  warm  ; 
He  shelters  the  little  birds  safe  from 

harm ; 
And   shake   him   in  autumn,   he  will 

not  fail 
To   send   you   down   apples  thick  as 

hail. 

Therefore,  it  cannot  a  wonder  be 
That   we   sing   hurrah    for   the  apple 
tree ! 

CHERRIES  ARE  RIPE. 

Cherries  are  ripe, 

Cherries  are  ripe, 
Oh  give  the  baby  one  ; 

Cherries  are  ripe, 

Cherries  are  ripe, 
But  baby  shall  have  none ; 


Babies  are  too  young  to  choose, 
Cherries  are  too  sour  to  use ; 

But  by  and  by, 

Made  in  a  pie, 
No  one  will  them  refuse. 

Up  in  the  tree 
Robin  I  see, 
Picking  one  by  one ; 
Shaking  his  bill, 
Getting  his  fill, 
Down  Ins  throat  they  run : 
Robins  want  no  cherry  pie; 
Quick  they  eat,  and  off  they  fly; 
My  little  child, 
Patient  and  mild, 
Surely  will  not  cry. 

Cherries  are  ripe, 

Cherries  are  ripe, 
But  we  will  let  them  fall ; 

Cherries  are  ripe, 

Cherries  are  ripe, 
But  bad  for  babies  small ; 
Gladly  follow  mother's  will, 
Be  obedient,  kind,  and  still; 

Waiting  a  while, 

Delighted  you'll  smile, 
And  joyful  eat  your  fill. 

Hastings'  Nursery  Songs. 

THE  DISCONTENTED  YEW  TREE. 
A  dark-greex  prickly  yew  one  night 
Peeped  round  on  the  trees  of  the 
forest, 
And   said,  "  Their  leaves  are  smooth 
and  bright — 
My  lot  is  the  worst  and  poorest, 

"I  wish  I  had  golden  leaves,"  said  the 
yew ; 
And  lo  !  when  the  morning  came, 
He  found  his  wish  had  come  sudden- 
ly true, 
For  his  branches  were  all  aflame. 


294 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


So  when  daylight  broke  he  was  dark, 


Now,  by  came  a  Jew,  with  a  bag  on  i  But  the  world   has  goats  as  well   as 
his  back,  -  men, 

Who  cried,  "  I'll  he  rich  to-day !"  And  one  came  snuffing  past. 

He  stripped  the   boughs,  and,  filling  j  Which  ate  of  the  green  leaves  a  mil- 
his  sack  lion  and  ten, 

With    the    yellow    leaves,    walked  i       Not  having  broken  his  fast. 

away. 

Oh  then  the  yew  tree  groaned  aloud  : 

The  yew  was  as  vexed  as  a  tree  could         "  What  folly  was  mine,  alack  ! 

be,  :  I  was  discontented,  and  I  was  proud — 

And  grieved,  as  a  yew  tree  grieves,    \      Oh  give  me  my  old  leaves  back  !" 
And  sighed,  "If  Heaven  would  but! 

pity  me, 

And  grant  me  crystal  leaves !"  dark  Sree11' 

And  prickly  as  before. 

Then    crystal    leaves    crept   over    the  I  The   other   trees    mocked :    "Such    a 
boughs ;  sight  to  be  seen  ! 

Said  the  yew,  "Now  am  I  not  gay?"        To  be  near  him  makes  one  sore."' 
But  a  hailstorm  hurricane  soon  arose 

And  broke  every  leaf  away.  !  The  south  wind  whispered  his  leaves 

between, 
So    he    mended    his    wish    yet   once  |      "  Be  thankful,  and  change  no  more, 
again  :  i  The  thing  you  are  is  always  the  thing 

"  Of  my  pride  I  do  now  repent ;  That  you  had  better  be." 

Give    me    fresh,   green    leaves,    quite    But  the  north  wind  said,  with  a  gal- 
smooth  and  plain,  lant  fling, 
And  I  will  be  content."                               "The  foolish,  weak  yew  tree! 

In  the  morning  he   woke   in   smooth  «  what    if    he    blundered    twice    or 

green  leaf,  thrice? 

Saying,  "  This  is  a  sensible  plan  ;  There's  a,  turn  to  the  longest  lane  ; 

The  storm  will  not  bring  my  beauty  And  everything  must  have  its  price- 


to  grief, 
Or  the  greediness  of  man. 


Poor  faultcrer,  try  again  !" 

Lilliput  Levee. 


NATURE 


Nature 


THE  MONTHS. 

January  brings  the  snow, 

Makes  our  feet  and  fingers  glow ; 

February  brings  the  rain, 

Thaws  the  frozen  lake  again  ; 

March  brings  breezes  loud  and  shrill, 

Stirs  the  dancing  daffodil ; 

April  brings  the  primrose  sweet, 

Scatters  daisies  at  our  feet ; 

May  brings  flocks  of  pretty  lambs, 

Skipping  by  their  fleecy  dams  ; 

June  brings  tulips,  lilies,  roses, 

Fills  the  children's  hands  with  posies ; 

Hot  July  brings  cooling  showers, 

Apricots,  and  gilliflowers ; 

August  brings  the  sheaves  of  corn, 

Then  the  harvest  home  is  borne ; 

Warm  September  brings  the  fruit, — 

Sportsmen  then  begin  to  shoot ; 


Fresh  October  brings  the  pheasant, — 
Then  to  gather  nuts  is  pleasant ; 
Dull  November  brings  the  blast, — 
Then  the  leaves  are  whirling  fast ; 
Chill  December  brings  the  sleet, 
Blazing  fire,  and  Christmas  treat. 

Sara  Coleridge. 


THE  FOUR  SEASONS. 

SPRING. 

Spring  day  !  happy  day  ! 
God  hath  made  the  earth  so  gay ! 
Every  little  flower  He  waketh, 
Every  herb  to  grow  He  maketh. 
When  the  pretty  lambs  are  springing, 
When  the  little  birds  are  singing, 
Child,  forget  not  God  to  praise, 
Who  hath  sent  such  happy  days. 

SUMMER. 

Summer  day  !  sultry  day  ! 
Hotly  burns  the  noontide  ray ; 
Gentle  drops  of  summer  showers 
Fall  on  thirsty  trees  and  flowers ; 
On  the  cornfield  rain  doth  pour, 
Ripening  grain  for  winter  store. 
Child,  to  God  thy  thanks  should  be, 
Who  in  summer  thinks  of  thee. 

AUTUMN. 

Autumn  day  !  fruitful  day  ! 
See  what  God  hath  given  away  ! 

297 


298 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


Orchard  trees  with  fruit  are  bending;, 
Harvest  wains  are  homeward  wend- 
ing, 
And  the  Lord  all  o'er  the  land 
Opens  wide  His  bounteous  hand. 
Children,  gathering  fruits  that  fall, 
Think  of  God,  who  gives  them  all. 


WINTER. 


Winter  day  !  frosty  day  ! 
God  a  cloak  on  all  doth  lay ; 


On   the    earth    the    snow   He    shed- 

deth, 
O'er  the  lamb  a  fleece  He  spreadeth, 
Gives  the  bird  a  coat  of  feather 
To  protect  it  from  the  weather, 
Gives  the  children  home  and  food — 
Let  us  praise  Him — God  is  good ! 

THE  SEASONS. 
How  sweet  is  a  morning  in  spring, 
When  the  earth  has  been  watered 
with  showers, 
And  the  air  all  around  is  perfumed 
With  the  fragrance  of  opening  flow- 
ers! 

How  sweet  is  the  merry  lark's  song 
Which  he  cheerily  warbles  on  high, 

As  he  mounts  o'er  the  trees  on  the  hill, 
And  presses  his  wing  on  the  sky  ! 

How    sweet   are  the   bright   summer 
months, 
When  the  garden  with  herbage  is 
filled, 
And  the  fields  are  all  covered  with  corn, 
Which  the  ploughman  so  lately  had 
tilled ! 

At  noon,  when  the  flocks  and  the 
herds, 

All  languid  and  panting  with  heat, 
Creep  under  the  wide  spreading  boughs 

To  enjoy  a  cool  mid-day  retreat, 

How  sweet  on  a  bank  to  recline 
In  the  shade  of  a  green  willow  tree, 

And  list  to  the  musical  stream 
As  it  ripples  away  to  the  sea ! 

When  autumn  has  spread  her  rich  store 
How  sweet  in  the  orchard  to  walk, 

And  catch  the  ripe  fruit  as  it  falls, 
So   mellow   and   plump,  from   the 
stalk  ! 


NATURE. 


299 


When  winter  has  stripped  all  the  trees, 
And  fettered  the  rivulets'  flow, 

How  sweetly  he  covers  them  all 
With  a  garment  of  delicate  snow  ! 

When   the  winds   to   soft    silence   are 
hushed, 
So  gently  descends  the  white  shower 
That  it  bends  not  the  tenderest  vine 
Which  lifts  its  young  arms  to  the 
bower. 

At  night,  when  the  bright  beaming  stars 
Shed  their  clustering  glories  around, 

And  the  moon,  as  she  sails  o'er  the 
earth, 
Castshersil  very  beams  on  theground. 

How  pleasant  to  gaze  on  the  sky, 
To  such  a  vast  distance  outspread, 

And  think  that  a  million  of  worlds 
In  splendor  roll  over  my  head  ! 

When  I  look  on  this  beautiful  earth, 
When  my  eyes  to  the  heavens  I  raise, 

How  can  I  forbear  to  exclaim 

In  the  rapturous  language  of  praise, 

"  How  mighty,  how  kind  is  our  God ! 

How  great  are   His  goodness   and 
power ! 
So  delightful  a  dwelling  to  build 

For  creatures  who  love  Him  no  more ! 

"  0  Father  of  heaven  and  earth, 

Let  every  fair  object  I  see 
Fill  my  bosom  with  wonder  and  love, 

And  bind  my  affections  to  Thee. 

''  From  Thy  bountiful  hand  I  received 
Every  member  and  power  that  is 
mine  ; 
Be  my  childhood,  my  youth,  my  old 
age, 
And  my  life,  to  eternity.  Thine  !" 


I  LOVE  THEM  ALL. 

The  Spring  has  many  charms  for  me, 

And  many  pleasant  hours 
To  ramble,  unrestrained  and  free, 

Among  her  blooming  flowers. 

And  Summer,  when  she  visits  earth, 

In  leafy  garb  arrayed, 
I  bless  her  for  her  cooling  showers. 

Her  sunshine  and  her  shade. 

And  Autumn,  laden  with  the  fruits 

Of  diligence  and  toil, 
Is  welcome  as  the  sky  that  glows 

Above  the  sunny  soil. 

The  Winter,  too,  has  many  joys 

The  cheerful  only  know, 
For  love  and  hope  and  happiness 

May  bloom  amid  the  snow. 

I  love  the  seasons  as  they  pass, 
God's  blessings  as  they  fall, 

The  joys  that  sparkle  in  life's  glass — 
I  love,  I  love  them  all. 


THE  FOUR  SEASONS. 

Birds  are  in  the  woodland,  buds  are 

on  the  tree, 
Merry  spring  is  coming ;  ope  the  pane 

and  see. 


300 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


1ll|§§iL 

m 

tSBSH 

'   •       ^iirllllllll 


Then  come  sportive  breezes,  fields  with 

flowers  are  gay, 
In  the  woods  we're  singing  through 

the  summer  day. 

Fruits  are  ripe  in  autumn,  leaves  are 

sere  and  red, 
Then  we  glean  the  cornfield,  thanking 

God  for  bread. 


Then  at  last  comes  winter ;  fields  are 

cold  and  lorn, 
But  there's   happy  Christmas,  when 

our  Lord  was  born. 

Thus  as  years  roll  onward  merrily  we 
sing, 

Thankful  for  the  blessings  all  the  sea- 
sons bring. 


WHAT  WAY  DOES  THE  WIND  COME? 

What  way  does  the  wind  come?  what 

way  does  he  go  ? 
He  rides  over  the  water  and  over  the 

snow, 
Through  wood  and  through  vale,  and 

o'er  rocky  height, 
Which  the  goat  cannot  climb,  takes 

his  sounding  flight. 


He  tosses  about  in  every  fair  tree, 
As,  if  you  look  up,  you  plainly  may  see ; 
But  how  he  will  come,  and  whither 

he  goes, 
There's  never  a  scholar  in   England 

knows. 

Hewillsuddenlystopinacunningnook, 
And  rings  a  sharp  'larum  ;  but  if  you 
should  look. 


NATURE. 


301 


There's  nothing  to  see  but  a  cushion 

of  snow, 
Round  asapillow,  and  whiterthanmilk, 

And   softer  than   if  it  were  covered 

with  silk. 
Sometimes  he'll  hide  in  the  cave  of  a 

rock, 
Then  whistle  as  shrill  as  the  buzzard 

cock ; 
Yet  seek  him,  and  what  shall  you  find 

in  the  place? 
Nothing  but  silence  and  empty  space, 
Save,  in  a  corner,  a  heap  of  dry  leaves 
That  he's  left  for  a  bed  to  beggars  or 

thieves. 

As  soon  as  'tis  daylight  to-morrow  with 

me 
You  shall  go  to  the  orchard,  and  then 

you  will  see 
That  he  has  been  there  and  made  a 

great  rout, 
And  cracked  the  branches,  and  strewn 

them  about. 


Heaven  grant  that  he  spare  but  that 

•   one  upright  twig 
That  looked  up  at  the  sky  so  proud 

and  big 
All  last  summer,  as  well  you  know. 
Studded    with     apples,    a     beautiful 

show ! 

Hark!    over   the    roof    he    makes    a 

pause, 
And   growls  as   if  he   would  fix  his 

claws 
Right  in  the  slates,  and  with  a  huge 

rattle 
Drive  them  down,  like  men  in  a  bat- 

tie;  _ 
But  let  him  range  round  :  he  does  us 

no  harm ; 
We  build  up  the  fire,  we're  snug  and 

warm ; 
Untouched  by  his  breath  see  the  can- 
dle shines  bright. 
And  burns  with   a  clear  and  steady 

light. 


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THE    CHILDREN'S    BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


Books  have  we  to  read — but  that  half- 
stifled  knell, 

Alas !  'tis  the  sound  of  the  eight  o'- 
clock bell. 

Come  now,  we'll  to  bed;  and  when  we 
are  there 

He  may  work  his  own  will,  and  what 
shall  we  care  ? 

He  ma}7  knock  at  the  door — we'll  not 
let  him  in ; 

May  drive  at  the  windows — we'll  laugh 
at  his  din  ; 

Let  him  seek  his  own  home,  wherever 
it  be — 

Here's  a  cozy  warm  house  for  Edward 
and  me. 

By  a  Sister  of 
William  Wordsworth. 


CHIMNEY-TOPS. 
"Ah  !  the  morning  is  gray  ; 
And  what  kind  of  a  day 

Is  it  likely  to  be?" 
"  You  must  look  up  and  see 
What  the  chimney-pots  say. 

"  If  the  smoke  from  the  mouth 
Of  the  chimney  goes  south, 
'Tis  the  north  wind,  that  blows 
From  the  country  of  snows  : 

Look  out  for  rough  weather ; 
The  cold  and  the  north  wind 
Are  always  together. 

"  When  the  smoke  pouring  forth 
From  the  chimney  goes  north, 
A  mild  day  it  will  be, 
A  warm  time  we  shall  see  : 

The  south  wind  is  blowing 
From  the  land  where  the  orange 
And  fig  trees  are  growing. 

"  But  if  west  goes  the  smoke, 
Get  your  waterproof  cloak 


And  umbrella  about : 

'Tis  the  east  wind  that's  out. 

A  wet  day  you  will  find  it : 
The  east  wind  has  always 

A  storm  close  behind  it, 

:'  It  is  east  the  smoke  flies  ! 
We  may  look  for  blue  skies  ! 
Soon  the  clouds  will  take  flight, 
'Twill  be  sunny  and  bright; 

The  sweetest  and  best  wind 
Is,  surely,  that  fair-weather 

Bringer,  the  west  wind."' 

Marian*  Douglas. 


MARJORIE'S  ALMANAC. 

Robins  in  the  tree-tops, 

Blossoms  in  the  grass, 
Green  things  a-growing 

Everywhere  you  pass ; 
Sudden  little  breezes, 

Showers  of  silver  dew, 
Black  bough  and  bent  twig 

Budding  out  anew ; 
Pine  tree  and  willow  tree. 

Fringed  elm  and  larch, 
Don't  you  think  May  time's 

Pleasanter  than  March  ? 

Apples  in  the  orchard, 

Mellowing  one  by  one, 
Strawberries  upturning 

Soft  cheeks  to  the  sun  ; 
Roses  faint  with  sweetness, 

Lilies  fair  of  face, 
Drowsy  scents  and  murmurs 

Haunting  every  place ; 

Beams  of  golden  sunshine, 
Moonlight  bright  as  day, — 

Don't  you  think  Summer's 
Pleasanter  than  May  ? 


MA  TUBE. 


303 


Mate 


Red  leaf  and  gold  loaf 
Rustling  down  the  wind 


Roger  in  the  corn-patch 
Whistling  negro-songs, 

Pussy  by  the  hearthside 
Romping  with  the  tongs; 

Chestnuts  in  the  ashes, 

Bursting  through  the  rind  ; 


Mother  k£  doing  peaches  " 

All  the  afternoon — 
Don't  you  think  Autumn's 

Pleasanter  than  June? 

Little  fairy  snowflakes 

Dancing  in  the  flue ; 
Old  Mr.  Santa  Claus, 

What  is  keeping  you? 
Twilight  and  firelight 

Shadows  come  and  go, 
Merry  chime  of  sleigh-bells 

Tinkling  through  the  snow  ; 
Mother  knitting  stockings 

(Pussy's  got  the  ball !  | — 
Don't  you  think  Winter's 

Pleasantest  of  all  ? 

Thomas  Bailey  Aldkich. 


WRITTEN  IN  MARCH. 

The  cock  is  crowing, 
The  stream  is  flowing, 
The  small  birds  twitter, 
The  lake  doth  glitter, 


304 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


The  green  field  sleeps  in  the  sun  ; 
The  oldest  and  youngest 
Are  at  work  with  the  strongest ; 
The  cattle  are  grazing, 
Their  heads  never  raising ; 

There  are  forty  feeding  like  one  ! 

Like  an  army  defeated, 

The  snow  hath  retreated. 

And  now  doth  fare  ill 

On  the  top  of  the  bare  hill ; 
The   plough-boy   is   whooping   anon, 
anon. 

There's  joy  in  the  mountains, 

There's  life  in  the  fountains  ! 

Small  clouds  are  sailing, 

Blue  sky  prevailing ; 
The  rain  is  over  and  gone ! 

William  Wordsworth. 

THE  LEAVES  AND  THE  WIND. 

"  Come,  little  leaves,"  said  the  wind  one 

day— 
"  Come  o'er  the  meadows  with  me  and 

play ; 
Put  on  your  dresses  of  red  and  gold — 
Summer  is  gone,  and  the  days  grow 

cold." 


Soon  as  the  leaves  heard  the  wind's 

loud  call, 
Down  they  came  fluttering,  one  and  all ; 
Over  the  brown  fields  they  danced  and 

flew, 
Singing  the  soft  little  songs  that  they 

knew. 

"Cricket,  good-bye ;  we've  been  friends 

so  long ! 
Little  brook,  sing  us  your  farewell  song : 
Say  you  are  sorry  to  see  us  go ; 
Ah  !  you  will  miss  us,  right  well  we 

know : 

"  Dear  little  lambs,  in  your  fleecy  fold, 
Mother  will  keep  you  from  harm  and 

cold ; 
Fondly  we've  watched  you  in  vale  and 

glade ; 
Say,  will   you  dream  of  our   loving 

shade?" 

Dancing  and  whirling  the  little  leaves 

went : 
Winter   had   called   them,  and   they 

were  content. 
Soon  fast  asleep  in  their  earthy  beds, 
The  snow  laid  a  coverlet  over  theirheads. 

George  Cooper. 


X.  ITU  RE. 


305 


THE  WIND  IN  A  FROLIC. 

The   wind   one   morning   sprang   up 

from  sleep, 
Saying,  "  Now  for  a  frolic  !  now  for  a 

leap ! 
Now  for  a  macl-cap  galloping  chase ! 
I'll  make  a  commotion  in  every  place !" 
So  it  swept  with  a  bustle  right  through 

a  great  town, 
Cracking  the  signs  and  scattering  down 
Shutters  ;  and  whisking,  with  merciless 

squalls, 

Old  women's  bonnets  and  gingerbread 

stalls. 

20 


There  never  was  heard  a  much  lustier 

shout 
As  the  apples  and   oranges  trundled 

about ; 
And  the  urchins  that  stand  with  their 

thievish  eyes 
For  ever  on  watch  ran  off  each  with 

a  prize. 


Then  away  to  the  field  it  went,  blus- 
tering and  humming, 

And  the  cattle  all  wondered  whatever 
was  coming ; 


306 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


It  plucked  by  the  tails  the  grave  ma- 
tronly cows, 

And  tossed  the  colts'  manes  all  over 
their  brows  ; 

Till,  offended  at  such  an  unusual 
salute, 

They  all  turned  their  backs  and  stood 
sulky  and  mute. 

So  on  it  went  capering  and  playing  its 
pranks, 

Whistling  with  reeds  on  the  broad 
river's  banks, 

Puffing  the  birds  as  they  sat  on  the 
spray, 

Or  the  traveller  grave  on  the  king's 
highway. 

It  was  not  too  nice  to  hustle  the 
bags 

Of  the  beggar,  and  nutter  his  dirty 
rags ; 

1rI\vas  so  bold  that  it  feared  not  to 
play  its  joke 

With  the  doctor's  wig  or  the  gentle- 
man's cloak. 

Through  the  forest  it  roared,  and 
cried  gayly,  "  Now, 

You  sturdy  old  oaks,  I'll  make  you 
bow  !" 

And  it  made  them  bow  without  more 
ado, 

Or  it  cracked  their  great  branches 
through  and  through. 

Then  it  rushed  like  a  monster  on  cot- 
tage and  farm, 

Striking  their  dwellings  with  sudden 
alarm  ; 

And  they  ran  out  like  bees  in  a  mid- 
summer swarm  : 

There  were  dames  with  their  kerchiefs 
tied  over  their  caps, 

To  see  if  their  poultry  were  free  from 
mishaps ; 


The  turkeys  they  gobbled,  the  geese 

screamed  aloud, 
And  the  hens  crept  to  roost  in  a  terri- 
fied crowd  ; 
There   was    rearing   of    ladders,   and 

logs  laying  on 
Where    the    thatch    from    the    roof 

threatened  soon  to  be  gone. 
But  the  wind  had  swept  on,  and  had 

met  in  a  lane 
With  a  schoolboy,  who  panted    and 

struggled  in  vain ; 
For  it   tossed  him   and  twirled  him, 

then  passed,  and  he  stood 
With  his  hat  in  a  pool  and  his  shoes 

in  the  mud. 

Then  away  went  the  wind  in  its  holi- 
day glee, 
And  now  it  was  far  on  the  billowy  sea, 
And  the  lordly  ships  felt  its  staggering 

blow, 
And  the  little  boats  darted  to  and  fro. 
But  lo  !  it  was  night,  and  it  sank  to  rest 
On  the  sea-bird's  rock  in  the  gleaming 

west, 
Laughing  to  think,  in  its  fearful  fun, 
How  little  of  mischief  it  had  done. 

William  Howitt. 

THE  RAIN,  WIND,  AND   SNOW. 
Rain  !  rain  !  April  rain  ! 
Bring  the  flowers  back  again ; 
Yellow  cowslip  and  violet  blue, 
Buttercups  and  daisies  too. 
Rain !  rain  !  April  rain  ! 
Bring  the  flowers  back  again. 

Wind  !  wind  !  autumn  wind ! 
He  the  leafless  trees  has  thinned ; 
Loudly  doth  he  roar  and  shout ; 
Bar  the  door  and  keep  him  out. 
Wind  !  wind  !  autumn  wind ! 
He  the  leafless  trees  has  thinned. 


NATURE. 


m 


Snow !  snow  !  pure  white  snow  ! 
O'er  the  fields  thy  covering  strow  ; 
Cover  up  the  seed  so  warm. 
Through  the  winter  safe  from  harm. 
Snow !  snow !  pure  white  snow  ! 
O'er  the  fields  thy  covering  strow. 


WHAT  THE  TINY  DROP  SAID. 

As  a  little  raindrop  clung 
To  the  bosom  of  a  cloud, 

Much  it  trembled  ere  it  fell, 
And  it  sobbed  and  wept  aloud. 

"  Such  a  tiny  drop  as  I ! 

Prithee  do  not  let  me  go  ; 
My  humble  work  were  nothing 

On  the  great  round  world  below. 

'"  If  the  tender  blades  are  parched, 
Or  the  corn  is  very  dry, 

There  is  nothing  I  can  do — 
Such  a  tiny  thing  as  I. 

i:  I  cannot  swell  a  river, 

Or  e'en  fill  a  lily's  bell 
And  should  be  lost  for  ever 

In  the  forest  if  I  fell. 

"  I  pray  thee  let  me  tarry 
In  the  blue  and  sunny  sky, 

Disporting  in  the  sunbeams — 
Such  a  tiny  drop  as  I !" 


Rain  !  wind  !  snow !  all  three, 
Each  in  turn,  shall  welcome  be  : 
Each  and  all  in  turn  are  sent 
On  the  earth  with  good  intent. 
Rain,  wind,  snow,  all  three, 
Each  in  turn  shall  welcome  be. 

Rhyme  and  Reason. 


'"  I  know  you  are  a  little  drop," 
The  cloud  it  whispered  low ; 

"  And  yet  how  sad  a  thing  'twould  be 
If  every  drop  said  so  ! 

"  Alone  you  cannot  clothe  the  mead 
With  fresh  and  living  green, 

But  each  its  little  work  must  do 
The  little  blades  between. 

"  You  cannot  form  the  smallest  rill, 
Much  less  the  foaming  tide, 

But  you  may  join  and  form  a  sea 
With  others  by  your  side. 

"  In  all  the  great  and  glorious  works 
The  mighty  Lord  has  done. 

There  is  a  post  of  duty  fixed 
For  every  little  one. 

"  Each  has  its  humble  sphere  to  fill, 

Each  has  its  lot  assigned  ; 
Each  must  its  little  burden  bear 

With  firm  and  willing  mind." 


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THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


WHAT  THE  TINY  DROP  DID. 

The  cloud  then  gently  disengaged  - 

Its  child,  and  let  it  go, 
And  hade  it  do  its  duty  well 

In  the  great  world  helow. 

And  as  it  floated  gently  down 
Through  boundless  fields  of  air, 

Lo  !  all  at  once  it  saw  around 
Millions  of  raindrops  there. 

Each  one  of  all  that  myriad  throng 
Had  left  its  mother's  breast, 

Resolved,  whatever  might  befall, 
To  try  to  do  his  best. 

All  fear  was  banished,  hope  prevailed, 
Joy  glanced  from  every  eye, 

And    all   these   diamond    glistenings 
made 
A  rainbow  in  the  sky. 

Down,  down,  they  float  incessantly 
On  forest,  field,  and  flower, 

Till  not  a  leaf  or  blade  is  seen 
Unfreshened  by  the  shower. 

Still  down,  and  down,  from  out  the  air, 
On  hill  and  dale  and  moor, 

On  garden,  waste,  and  wilderness, 
Incessantly  they  pour. 

The  verdure  lifts  its  drooping  head, 
The  flowers  in  rapture  glow, 

The  babbling  brooks  and  rivulets 
With  leaping  waters  flow. 

These  swell  the  mighty  river's  tide, 

Which  rolls  in  majesty, 
Until  our  tiny  drop  becomes 

Part  of  the  wide,  wide  sea. 

There,  while  it  joined  the  anthem  deep 

Of  Ocean's  surges  loud, 
A  sunbeam  raised  it  up  to  be 

Part  of  a  golden  cloud. 


EVERY  LITTLE  HELPS. 

What  if  a  drop  of  rain  should  plead, 

"  So  small  a  drop  as  I 
Can  ne'er  refresh  the  thirsty  mead, 

I'll  tarry  in  the  sky  "  ? 

What  if  the  shining  beam  of  noon 
Should  in  its  fountain  stay, 

Because  its  feeble  light  alone 
Cannot  create  a  day  ? 

Does  not  each  raindrop  help  to  form 
The  cool,  refreshing  shower? 

And  every  ray  of  light  to  warm 
And  beautify  the  flower? 


APRIL'S  TRICK. 

When  April  still  was  young, 
And  full  of  her  tricks  and  wiles, 

Sometimes  frowning  and  sad, 
Again  all  grace  and  smiles, 

One  day  young  April  said, 

"  I  will  feign  that  I  am  dead. 

"  The  sun  and  the  wind  will  mourn, 
For  they  love  me  well,  I  know : 

I  will  hear  what  they  say  of  me 
In  my  drapery  of  snow." 

So,  silently,  in  the  night, 

She  clothed  herself  in  white. 

The  sun  rose  up  in  the  morn, 
And  looked  from  east  to  west, 

And  April  lay  still  and  white  ; 

Then  he  called  the  wind  from  his 
rest. 

"  Sigh  and  lament,"  he  said, 

"  Sweet  April,  the  child,  is  dead. 

"  She  that  was  always  fair, 
Behold  how  white  she  lies ! 

Cover  the  golden  hair, 

Close  down  the  beaming  eyes. 


NATURE. 


309 


One  last  time  let  us  kiss  thee, 
Sweet  April ;  we  shall  miss  thee !" 

The    sun   touched    his    lips    to    her 
cheeks, 

And  the  color  returned  in  a  glow  ; 
The  wind  laid  his  hand  on  her  hair, 

And  it  glistened  under  the  snow, 
As,  laughing  aloud  in  glee, 
Sweet  April  shook  herself  free. 

U.  P.  Utter. 

THE  RAIN. 
'*  Open  the  window  and  let  me  in," 

Sputters  the  petulant  rain  ; 
"  I  want  to  splash  down  on  the  carpet, 
dear, 
And  I  can't  get  through  the  pane. 

"  Here   I've   been  tapping  outside  to 
you ; 
Why    don't   you    come,    if    you're 
there  ? 
The   scuttles   are   shut,   or   I'd   dash 
right  in 
And  stream  down  the  attic  stair. 

"  I've  washed  the  windows,  I've  spat- 
tered the  blinds ; 
And  that  is  not  half  I've  done : 
I  bounced  on  the  steps  and  the  side- 
walks too, 
Till  I  made  the  good  people  run. 

"  I've  sprinkled  your  plant  on  the  win- 
dow-sill, 

So  drooping  and  wan  that  looks, 
And  dusty  gutters,  I've  filled  them  up 

Till  they  flow  like  running  brooks. 

"  I  have  been  out  in  the  country  too, 

For  there  in  glory  am  I ; 
The  meadows  I've  swelled,  and  wa- 
tered the  corn, 

And  floated  the  fields  of  rye. 


"  Out  from  the  earth  sweet  odors   I 
bring, 
I  fill  up  the  tubs  at  the  spout; 
While,  eager  to  dance  in  the  puddles 
I  make, 
The  bare-headed  child  runs  out. 

"  The  puddles  are  sweet  to  his  naked 
feet 

When  the  ground  is  heated  through ; 
If  only  you'll  open  the  window,  dear, 

1*11  make  such  a  puddle  for  you." 

Mrs.  Wells. 

THE  RAIN. 
Up  in  the  ancient  roof-tree, 

Hiding  among  the  leaves, 
Toying  with  swaying  branches, 

Dancing  in  mossy  eaves- 
Making  the  softest  music, 

Kissing  the  window-pane, — 
These  are  some  of  the  frolics 

Of  the  gently-falling  rain. 

Rushing  down  in  a  torrent, 

Wetting  the  farmer's  hay 
Just  as  the  boys  are  trying 

To  save  and  stow  it  away ; 
Tearing  to  earth  the  vinelets 

Climbing  the  cottage  wall, — 
These  are  some  of  the  mischiefs 

When  the  heavy  raindrops  fall. 

Filling  up  the  cisterns, 

Making  the  rivers  flow, 
Blessing  the  drooping  corn-field, 

And  the  patch  where  the  melons 
grow ; 
Waking  a  bud  of  beauty 

Where  a  withered  leaf  had  been, — 
Doing  each  little  duty 

With  no  thought  of  murmuring  ; 

Raindrops,  blessed  raindrops ! 
Come  ve  fast  or  slow. 


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THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


Bringing  to  our  vision 
Oft  the  promised  bow, 

Gift  of  the  great  All-Father,' 
Sent  the  world  to  cheer, 

Hearts  were  sad  without  you, 
Earth  were  dry  and  sere. 

Mrs.  E.  A.  Harriman. 


THE  RAIN. 

Like  a  gentle  joy  descending, 
To  the  earth  a  glory  lending, 

Comes  the  pleasant  rain  ; 
Fairer  now  the  flowers  are  growing, 
Fresher  now  the  winds  are  blowing, 
Swifter  now  the  streams  are  flowing, 

Gladder  waves  the  grain  ; 
Grove  and  forest,  field  and  mountain, 
Bathing  in  the  crystal  fountain, 
Drinking  in  the  inspiration, 
Offer  up  a  glad  oblation  ; 
All  around,  about,  above  us, 
Things  we  love  and  things  that  love 
us 

Bless  the  gentle  rain. 

Children's  voices  now  are  ringing, 
Some  are  shouting,  some  are  singing, 

On  the  way  to  school ; 
And  the  beaming  eye  shines  brighter, 
And  the  bounding  pulse  beats  lighter, 
As  the  little  feet  grow  whiter, 

Paddling  in  the  pool ; 
Oh  the  rain  !  it  is  a  blessing, 
Sweeter  than  the  sun's  caressing, 
Softer,  gentler — yea,  in  seeming, 
Gladder  than  the  sunlight  gleaming, 
To  the  children  shouting,  singing, 
With  the  voices  clear  and  ringing, 

Going  to  the  school. 

Beautiful  and  still  and  holy, 
Like  the  spirit  of  the  lowly, 


Comes  the  quiet  rain  ; 
'Tis  a  fount  of  joy,  distilling, 
And  the  lyre  of  earth  is  trilling 
With  a  music  low  and  thrilling, 

Swelling  to  a  strain  ; 
Nature  opens  wide  her  bosom, 
Bursting  buds  begin  to  blossom  ; 
To  her  very  soul  'tis  stealing, 
All  the  springs  of  life  unsealing ; 
Singing  stream  and  rushing  river 
Drink  it  in,  and  praise  the  Giver 

Of  the  blessed  rain. 

Lo  !  the  clouds  are  slowly  parting, 
Sudden  gleams  of  light  are  darting 

Through  the  falling  rain  ; 
Bluer  now  the  sky  is  beaming, 
Softer  now  the  light  is  streaming, 
With  its  shining  fingers  gleaming 

'Mid  the  golden  grain  ; 
Greener  now  the  grass  is  springing, 
Sweeter  now  the  birds  are  singing, 
Clearer  now  the  shout  is  ringing  ; 
Earth,  the  purified,  rejoices 
With  her  silver-sounding  voices, 
Sparkling,  flashing  like  a  prism, 
In  the  beautiful  baptism 

Of  the  blessed  rain. 

Lura  Anna  Boies. 

THE  RAIN-SONG. 

When  woods  were  still  and  smoky, 

And  roads  with  dust  were  white, 
And  daily  the  red  sun  came  up, 

With  never  a  cloud  in  sight, 
And   the   hillside  brook  had  hardly 
strength 

To  journey  down  to  the  plain, 
A  welcome  sound  it  was  to  hear 

The  robins'  song  of  rain. 

"  Lily,  Fuchsia,  Pansy," 

The  robins  sang  in  the  town 


NATURE. 


311 


To   the   thirsty   garden    flowers,  that 
stood 

With  delicate  heads  bowed  down, 
"  Listen,  we  bring  you  a  message  : 

Your  doubts  and  fears  are  vain, 
For  He  who  knoweth  all  your  needs 

To-morrow  will  send  you  rain. 

"  Golden-rod,  Aster,  Gentian," 

They  sang  in  field  and  wood, 
"  We  whose  homes  are  near  to  the  sky 

Have  brought  you  tidings  good. 
Lift  up  your  heads  and  listen, 

Forget  your  thirst  and  pain, 
For  He  who  knoweth  all  your  needs 

To-morrow  will  send  you  rain." 


Far  and  wide  they  sang  it, 

Till  grove  and  garden  knew  ; 
The  green  trees  stirred  at  the  joyful 
word, 

Till  the  sunset  clouds  looked  through. 
Each  told  the  news  to  his  neighbor, 

Each  neighbor  passed  it  along, 
Till  the   lowliest   flower  in  the  quiet 
wood 

Had  heard  of  the  robins'  song. 

Dear  little  feathered  prophets  ! 

Your  message  was  not  in  vain, 
For  in  the  silence  of  the  night 

Came  the  footsteps  of  the  rain. 

R.  P.  Utter. 


LITTLE  NED  AND  THE  SHOWER. 

Dear  me  !  it  never  rains  so  hard 

As  when  I  want  to  play  ; 
There  are  my  playthings  in  the  yard, 

And  there  they'll  have  to  stay. 

"  It  is  too  bad,  I  do  declare !" 
Said  angry  little  Ned ; 


"  We'd   such    a    lot    of    nice    things 
there, 
All  piled  up  in  the  shed  ! 

"  And    now   this   hateful   rain   comes 
down 

To  spoil  our  splendid  fun  !" 
And  Ned's  bright  face  put  on  a  frown — ■ 

Oli,  what  an  ugly  one! 


91  9 


THE    CHILDREN'S    BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


11  My  boy,  what  did  you  say  just  then  ;  They  won't  let  me  walk, 
About  the  hateful  rain  ?  And  they  won't  let  me  play, 


You  surely  have  forgotten  when 
We  longed  for  showers  again. 


And  they  won't  let  me  go 
Out  of  doors  at  all  to-day. 


'  'Twas  yesterday,  I  think,  you  said      .  They  put  away  my  playthingSj 

The  brook  had  run  away,  Because  I  broke  them  all ; 

And   when   your   rosebush   hung   its    And    then   they   locked   up    dl 

bricks, 


head, 


my 


You  wished  for  rain  to-day. 

"  It  grieves  me  much,  my  child,  to  see 
Such  temper  as  you  show  ; 

Come  here  and  take  this  seat  by  me, 
And  let  your  playthings  go. 

"  Remember,  He  who  sends  the  rain 
To  bless  the  fading  flowers, 

Sees  every  naughty  look  with  pain, 
And  hears  each  word  of  ours. 

"  And  when  his  angel  in  the  book 
Writes  down  the  words  you  say, 

I  fear  'twill  be  with  saddened  look 
He'll  think  of  those  to-day. 

''  Then    always    try    to    guard    your 
tongue 

From  such  impatience  wild, 
And  when  you're  tempted  to  do  wrong, 

Just  stop  and  think,  my  child, 

'"  And  ask  your  heavenly  Father  kind 

To  keep  you  in  His  way  ; 
Whene'er  to  stray  you  feel  inclined 

Ask  pardon — watch — and  pray." 


LITTLE  RAINDROPS. 

Oh,  where  do  you  come  from, 
You  little  drops  of  rain, 

Pitter-patter,  pitter-patter, 
Down  the  window-pane  ? 


And  took  away  my  ball. 

Tell  me,  little  raindrops, 
Is  that  the  way  you  play, 

Pitter-patter,  pitter-patter, 
All  the  rainy  day  ? 

The}'  say  I'm  very  naughty, 
But  I've  nothing  else  to  do 

But  sit  here  at  the  window ; 
I  should  like  to  play  with  you. 

The  little  raindrops  cannot  speak  ; 

But  "  pitter-patter  pat " 

Means,  "  We  can  play  on  this  side  ; 

Why  can't  you  play  on  that  V 

Aunt  Effie's  Rhymes 


A  FEW  STRAY  SUNBEAMS. 

Little  dainty  sunbeams ! 

Listen  when  you  please, 
You'll  not  hear  their  tiny  feet 

Dancing  in  the  trees  : 
All  so  light  and  delicate 

Is  their  golden  thread, 
Not  a  single  flower-leaf 

Such  a  step  may  dread. 

Merry,  laughing  sunbeams, 
Playing  here  and  there, 

Passing  through  the  rose-leaves, 
Flashing  everywhere ; 


NATURE. 


313 


Through  the  cottage  window, 

In  the  cottage  door, 
Past  the  green,  entangled  vines, 

On  the  cottage  floor. 

Lovely  little  sunbeams, 

Laughing  as  they  played 
Through  the  flying  ringlets 

Of  the  cottage  maid  ; 
Staying  but  to  flush  her  check. 

Darting  in  their  glee 
Down  the  darkened  forest-path. 

O'er  the  open  lea, 
Through  the  castle  window 

Where,  in  curtained  gloom, 
Sat  its  lovely  mistress 

In  her  splendid  bloom. 

Oh,  ye  saucy  sunbeams  ! 

Could  ye  dare  to  spy 
Time's  annoying  footmarks 

Near  a  lady's  eye? 
Dare  ye  flash  around  her. 

Every  line  to  see, 
Lighting  each  stray  wrinkle  up 

In  your  cruel  glee  ? 

See  !  the  witching  sunbeams, 

With  the  wand  they  hold, 
Turn  the  earth  to  emerald 

And  the  skies  to  gold  ; 
All  the  streams  are  silver 

'Neath  their  magic  rare, 
All  the  black  tears  Night  hath  shed 

Gems  for  kings  to  wear. 

Beautiful  is  moonlight, 

Like  to  Nature's  mind, 
Purely  white  and  brilliant, 

Coldly,  calmly  kind  : 
Beautiful  thy  burning  stars, 

Like  to  Nature's  soul, 
Rapturous  that  ever  gaze 

Heavenward  as  thev  roll. 


But  oh.  the  human  sunlight. 

Flooding  earth  in  glee, 
Nature's  living,  laughing,  loving, 

Gladsome  heart  for  mo! 


Eliza  Sproat  TYrner. 


TO  A  SUNBEAM. 

Thou  ling'rest  not   in  the  monarch's 

hall; 
Thou  hast  beams  of  gladness  for  one 

and  all  ; 
Thou  art  full  as  bright  in  the  peasant's 

cot 
As  'when  shining  upon  earth's  loveliest 

spot. 

Thou  art  glancing  down  in  thy  beauty 

fair, 
Through,  the  soft  green  leaves  on  the 

waters  clear, 
Changing  the  lake,  so  blue  and  cold, 
Into     molten     glass    and    burnished 

gold. 

Thou  hast  shone  in  love  on  the  youth- 
ful head ; 

Thou  hast  touched  with  beauty  the 
shrouded  dead  ; 

Thou  hast  brightened  those  shining 
silken  curls, 

And  over  that  form  strewed  fairy 
pearls. 

Thou  hast  gilded  the  mountains  and 

slept  on  the  waves  ; 
Thou  hast  rested  like  peace  on  lonely 

graves ; 
Thou  art   of    that   faith   an   emblem 

given 
That  toucheth  all  things  with  hues  of 

heaven. 


314 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


SPRING  VOICES. 

"  Caw  !  caw !"  says  the  Crow, 
"  Spring  has  come  again  I  know ; 
For,  as  sure  as  I  am  born, 
There's  a  farmer  planting  corn : 
I  shall  breakfast  there,  I  trow, 
Long  before  his  corn  can  grow." 

"  Quack,  quack !"  says  the  Duck, 
"  Was  there  ever  such  good  luck ! 
Spring  has  cleared  the  pond  of  ice, 
And  the  day  is  warm  and  nice, 
Just  as  I  and  Goodman  Drake 
Thought  we'd  like  a  swim  to  take." 

"  Croak,  croak !"  says  the  Frog, 
As  he  leaps  out  from  the  bog ; 
"  Spring  is  near,  I  do  declare, 
For  the  earth  is  warm  and  fair : 
Croak!     croak!     croak!     I    love    the 

spring,- 
When  the  little  birdies  sing." 


COMMON  THINGS. 

The  sunshine  is  a  glorious  thing, 

That  comes  alike  to  all, 
Lighting  the  peasant's  lowly  cot, 

The  noble's  painted  hall. 

The  moonlight  is  a  gentle  thing ; 

It  through  the  window  gleams 
Upon  the  snowy  pillow  where 

The  happy  infant  dreams : 

It  shines  upon  the  fisher's  boat 

Out  on  the  lonely  sea, 
Or  where  the  little  lambkins  lie 

Beneath  the  old  oak  tree. 

The  dewdrops  on  the  summer  morn 
Sparkle  upon  the  grass ; 


The  village  children  brush  them  off 
That  through  the  meadows  pass. 

There  are  no  gems  in  monarchs'  crowns 

More  beautiful  than  they ; 
And  yet  we  scarcely  notice  them, 

But  tread  them  off  in  play. 


IN  THE  CORN-FIELD. 

We've  ploughed  our  land,  and  with 
even  hand 
The  seed  o'er  the  field  we've  strown ; 
But  sunshine  and  rain,  to  ripen  the 
grain, 
Can  be  given  by  God  alone. 

The  seed  that  springs,  and  the  bird 
that  sings, 

And  the  shining  summer  sun, 
The  tiny  bee  and  the  mighty  sea, — 

God  made  them  every  one. 

Then  thankful  we'll  be,  for  shall  not 
He 

Who  gives  to  each  bird  a  nest, 
To  each  bee  a  flower  for  its  little  hour. 

Give  His  children  food  and  rest? 


WAITING  FOR  THE  MAY. 

From  out  his  hive  there  came  a  bee : 
"Has  spring-time  come  or  not?"  said 

he. 
Alone  within  a  garden-bed 
A   small,    pale    snowdrop   raised    its 

head : 
"  'Tis  March,  this  tells  me,"  said  the 

bee; 
"  The  hive  is  still  the  place  for  me. 
The  day  is  chill,  although  'tis  sunny, 
And  icy  cold  this  snowdrop's  honey." 


NATURE. 


315 


Again  came  humming  forth  the  bee : 
"  What  month  is  with  us  now  ?"  said 

he. 
Gray  crocus-blossoms,  blue  and  white 
And  yellow,  opened  to  the  light. 
"  It  must  be  April,"  said  the  bee, 
''And   April's   scarce   the   month   for 

me. 
I'll   taste  these   flowers    (the    day   is 

sunny), 
But  wait  before  I  gather  honey." 

Once  more  came  out  the  waiting  bee : 
"  'Tis  come:  I  smell  the  spring!"  said 

he. 
The  violets  were  all  in  bloom, 
The  lilac  tossed  a  purple  plume, 
The  daff 'dil  wore  a  yellow  crown, 
The  cherry  tree  a  snow-white  gown, 
And  by  the  brookside,  wet  with  clew, 
The  early  wild  wake-robins  grew. 
"  It  is  the  May-time  !"  said  the  bee, 
"  The  queen  of  all  the  months  for  me. 
The  flowers  are  here,  the  sky  is  sunny: 
'Tis  now  my  time  to  gather  honey." 

Marian  Douglas. 


SPRING  AND  THE  FLOWERS. 

In  the  snowing  and  the  blowing, 

In  the  cruel  sleet, 
Little  flowers  begin  their  growing 

Far  beneath  our  feet. 
Softly  taps  the  Spring,  and  cheerly  : 

"  Darlings,  are  you  here  ?" 
Till  they  answer,  "  We  are  nearly, 

Nearly  ready,  dear. 

"  Where  is  Winter,  with  his  snowing  ? 

Tell  us,  Spring,"  they  say. 
Then  she  answers,  "  He  is  going, 

Going  on  his  way. 


Poor  old  Winter  does  not  love  you. 

But  his  time  is  past; 
Soon  my  birds  shall  sing  above  you — 

Set  you  free  at  last." 

SPRING. 

The  bleak  winds  of  winter  are  past, 
The  frost  and  the   snow  are   both 
gone, 

And  the  trees  are  beginning  at  last 
To  put  their  green  liveries  on. 

And  now  if  you  look  in  the  lane, 
And  along  the  warm  bank,  may  be 
found 

The  violet  in  blossom  again, 

And  shedding  her  perfume  around. 

The  primrose  and  cowslip  are  out. 
And  the  fields  are  with  daisies  all 

gay, 

While  butterflies,  flitting  about, 
Are  glad  in  the  sunshine  to  play. 

The    goldfinch,   and    blackbird,    and 
thrush, 
Are  brimful  of  music  and  glee ; 
They  have  each  got  a  nest  in  some 
bush, 
And  the  rook  has  built  his  on  a  tree. 

The  lark's  home  is  hid  in  the  corn. 
But  he  springs  from  it  often  on  high. 

And  warbles  his  welcome  to  morn, 
Till  he  looks  like  a  speck  in  the  sky. 

Oh,  who  would  be  sleeping  in  bed 
When  the  skies  with  such  melody 
ring, 
And  the  bright  earth  beneath  him  is 
spread 
With  the  beauty  and  fragrance  of 
spring  ? 

Bernard  Barton. 


31 6 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


THE  SPRING  WALK. 

We  had  a  pleasant  walk  to-day 
Over  the  meadows  and  far  away. 
Across  the  bridge  by  the  water-mill, 
By  the  wood-side,  and  up  the  hill ; 
And  if  you  listen  to  what  I  say, 
I'll  tell  you  what  we  saw  to-day. 

Amid  a  hedge,  where  the  first  leaves 
Were  peeping  from  their  sheaths  so 
sly, 


We  saw  four  eggs  within  a  nest, 

And  they  were  blue  as  a  summer 
sky. 

An  elder-branch  dipped  in  the  brook  ; 
We  wondered  why  it   moved,  and 
found 
A  silken-haired  smooth  water-rat 
Nibbling,  and  swimming  round  and 
round. 

Where  daisies  opened  to  the  sun 
In  a  broad  meadow,  green  and  white, 

The  lambs  were  racing  eagerly — 
We  never  saw  a  prettier  sight. 

We  saw  upon  the  shady  banks 

Long  rows  of  golden  flowers  shine, 

And  first  mistook  for  buttercups 
The  star-shaped  yellow  celandine. 


NATURE. 


317 


Anemones  and  primroses, 

And  the  blue  violets  of  spring, 

We  found  while  listening  by  a  hedge 
To  hear  a  merry  ploughman  sing. 

And  from  the  earth  the  plough  turned 
up 
There  came  a  sweet  refreshing  smell, 
Such  as  the  lily  of  the  vale 

Sends  forth  from  many  a  woodland 
dell. 

We  saw  the  yellow  wall-flower  wave 
Upon  a  mouldering  castle-wall, 

And  then  we  watched  the  busy  rooks 
Among  the  ancient  elm  trees  tall. 

And,  leaning  from  the  old  stone  bridge, 
Below  we  saw  our  shadows  lie, 

And     through     the     gloomy     arches 
watched 
The  swift  and  fearless  swallows  fly. 

We  heard  the  speckle-breasted  lark 
As  it  sang  somewhere  out  of  sight, 

And  tried  to  find  it,  but  the  sky 

Was  filled  with  clouds  of  dazzling 
light. 

We  saw  young  rabbits  near  the  wood, 
And  heard  a  pheasant's  wings   go 
"  whir ;" 

And  then  we  saw  a  squirrel  leap 
From  an  old  oak  tree  to  a  fir. 

We  came  back  by  the  village  fields, 
A  pleasant  walk  it  was  across  'em, 

For  all  behind  the  houses  lay 
The   orchards  red   and  white  with 
blossom. 

Were  I  to  tell  you  all  we  saw, 

I'm    sure   that   it   would   take    me 
hours ; 


For  the  whole  landscape  was  alive 
With  bees,  and  birds,  and  buds,  and 
flowers. 

Thomas  Miller. 


A  WALK  IN  SPRING. 

I'm  very  glad  the  spring  is  come — the 
sun  shines  out  so  bright, 

The  little  birds  upon  the  trees  arc 
singing  for  delight. 

The  young  grass  looks  so  fresh  and 
green,   the   lambkins    sport    and 

play, 

And   I    can   skip   and  run  about   as 

merrily  as  they. 
I  like  to  see  the  daisy  and  the  butter- 
cups once  more, 
The  primrose  and  the  cowslip  too,  and 

every  pretty  flower ; 
I  like  to  see  the  butterfly  fluttering 

her  painted  wing,     *\ 
And  all  things  seem  just  like  myself, 

so  pleased  to  see  the  spring. 
The  fishes  in  the  little  brook  are  jump- 
ing up  on  high, 
The   lark   is   singing   sweetly  as   she 

mounts  into  the  sky  ; 
The  rooks  are  building  up  their  nests 

upon  the  great  tall  tree, 
And  everything's  as  busy  and  as  happy 

as  can  be. 
There's  not   a   cloud   upon   the   sky, 

there's  nothing  dark  or  sad  ; 
I  jump  and  scarce  know  what  to  do,  I 

feel  so  very  glad. 
God  must  be  very  good  indeed,  who 

made  each  pretty  thing  : 
I'm  sure  we  ought  to  love  Him  much 

for  bringing  back  the  spring. 

M.  A.  Stodakt. 


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BOY'S  SONG. 

Where  the  pools  are  bright  and  deep, 
Where  the  gray  trout  lies  asleep, 
Up  the  river  and  over  the  lea, 
That's  the  way  for  Billy  and  me. 

Where  the  blackbird  sings  the  latest, 
Where     the     hawthorn    blooms    the 

sweetest, 
Where  the  nestlings  chirp  and  flee, 
That's  the  way  for  Billy  and  me. 

Where  the  hazel-bank  is  steepest, 
Where  the  shadow  falls  the  deepest, 
Where  the  clustering  nuts  fall  free, 
That's  the  way  for  Billy  and  me. 

Why  the  boys  should  drive  away 
Little  sweet  maidens  from  the  play, 
Or  love  to  banter  and  fight  so  well, 
That's  the  thing  I  never  could  tell. 

But  this  I  know  :   I  love  to  play 
Through  the  meadow,  among  the  hay, 
Up  the  water  and  over  the  lea ; 
That's  the  way  for  Billy  and  me. 

James  Hogg. 


EARLY  RISING. 

Get  up,  little  sister :  the  morning  is 
bright, 

And  the  birds  are  all  singing  to  wel- 
come the  light ; 

The  buds  are  all  opening ;  the  dew's 
on  the  flower : 

If  you  shake  but  a  branch,  see,  there 
falls  quite  a  shower. 

By  the   side   of  their  mothers,  look, 

under  the  trees, 
How  the  young  lambs  are   skipping 

about  as  they  please ; 


And  by  all  those  rings  on  the  water  I 
know 

The  fishes  are  merrily  swimming  be- 
low. 

The  bee,  I  dare  say,  has  been  long  on 

the  wing 
To  get  honey  from    every   flower  of 

spring ; 
For  the  bee  never  idles,  but  labors  all 

clay, 
And  thinks,   wise  little  insect,  work 

better  than  play. 

The  lark's  singing  gayly ;  it  loves  the 

bright  sun, 
And  rejoices  that  now  the  gay  spring 

is  begun ; 
For  the  spring  is  so  cheerful,  I  think 

'twould  be  wrong 
If  we  do  not  feel  happy  to  hear  the 

lark's  song. 

Get  up  ;  for  when  all  things  are  merry 

and  glad 
Good  children  should    never  be  lazy 

and  sad ; 
For  God  gives  us  daylight,  clear  sister, 

that  we 
May  rejoice  like  the   lark   and   may 

work  like  the  bee. 

Lady  Flora  Hastings. 


TO  A  DEAR  LITTLE  TRUANT, 

who  wouldn't  come  home. 
When  are  you  coming?  the  flowers 

have  come! 
Bees  in  the  balmy  air  happily  hum ; 
In   the   dim   woods,  where   the   cool 

mosses  are, 
Gleams    the    anemone's    little,    light 

star ; 


MATURE. 


319 


Tenderly,  timidly  down  in  the  dell,  SONG  FOR  MAY   MORNING. 

Sighs   the    sweet  violet,   droops    the    Wake,  sister,  wake,  for  the  sun  is  up ; 


harebell 


How  can  you  be  thus  delaying? 


Soft  in  the  wavy  grass   lightens   the    The  dew  is  still  in  the  harebell's  cup, 

clew ; 
Spring  keeps  her  promises — why   do 

not  you  f 


And  'tis  time  to  so  a-Maying. 


I'll  throw  up  the  window ;  the  air  is 
sweet 
Up  in  the  blue  air  the  clouds  are  at  |      As  the  breath  of  a  rose  just  born  ; 


play — 
You  are  more  graceful  and  lovely  than 

they ; 
Birds  in  the  branches  sing  all  the  day 

long- 
When  are  you  coming  to  join  in  their 

song;  ? 


And  see  how  the  hills  and  meadows 
greet 
The  smiles  of  the  first  May  morn. 

I'm  dressed  and  ready — come,  sister 
dear, 
For  the  birds  are  carolling  loud  ; 


Fairer  than  flowers  and  fresher  than  t  And  the  skY  is   soft>  and  blue>  and 


dew 


clear, 


Other  sweet  things  are  here— why  are        And  there  ^'t  a  sPeck  of  a  cloud 
not  you  ? 


Why  don't  you  come?     We've  wel- 
comed the  rose ; 


And  hark !  I  hear  from  their  chamber- 
door 
Our  brothers  come  slyly  creeping ; 


Every  light  zephyr,  as  gavlv  it  goes,       But  rU  tel1  them  1  was  UP  before> 
Whispers  of  other  flowers  met  on  its        And  vou  have  just  done  sleeping. 


way 


Why  has  it  nothing  of  you,  love,  to 
sav  ? 


Look  !     There  they  stand  at  the  gate 
below, 


M-    ..  3   and        And  only  for  us  are  staying. 

Are  you  ready  yet?    Oh,  now  well 
go 


dew  ? 
Rose  of  the  South,  we  are  waiting  for 

you. 


In  the  pleasant  fields  a-Maying ! 


Do  not  delay,  darling ;  'mid  the  dark 

trees 
"  Like  a  lute  "  murmurs  the  musical    'Tis  June — the  merry,  smiling  June — 


SUMMER. 


breeze ; 


Tis  blushing  summer  now 


Sometimes  the  brook,  as  it  trips  by  |  The  rose  is  red,  the  bloom  is  dead. 


the  flowers, 
Hushes  its  warble  to  listen  for  yours. 
Pure  as  the  rivulet,  lovely  and  true, 
Spring   should   have  waited   till   she        Amid  the  clustering  vine ; 


The  fruit  is  on  the  bough. 
The  bird-cage  hangs  upon  the  wall, 


could  bring  you. 

Fbaxces  Sargent  Osgood. 


The  rustic  seat  is  in  the  porch, 
Where  honeysuckles  twine. 


320 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


'Vvt^ 


£;3& 


The   rosy,    ragged    ur- 
chins play 
Beneath  the  glowing 
sky; 
They  scoop  the  sand,  or 
gayly  chase 
The  bee  that  buzzes 
>y. 


The  household  spaniel 
flings  his  length 
Beneath  the  shelter- 
ing Avail ; 
The  panting  sheep-dog  seeks  the  spot 
Where  leafy  shadows  fall. 


The  petted  kitten  frisks  among 
The  bean-flowers'  fragrant  maze ; 

Or,  basking,  throws  her  dappled  form 
To  catch  the  warmest  rays. 

The  opened  casements,  flinging  wide, 

Geraniums  give  to  view ; 
With  choicest  posies  ranged  between, 

Still  wet  with  morning  dew. 

The  mower  whistles  o'er  his  toil, 
The  emerald  grass  must  yield ; 

The  scythe  is  out,  the  swarth  is  down; 
There's  incense  in  the  field. 

Oh,  how  I  love  to  calmly  muse, 
In  such  an  hour  as  this, 


To    nurse   the  joy    creation 
gives 
In  purity  and  bliss !  . 

Eliza  Cook. 


WHAT  SO  SWEET? 

What  so  sweet  as  summer. 

When  the  sky  is  blue, 
And  the  sunbeams'  arrows 

Pierce   the    green    earth 
through? 

What   so   sweet    as    birds 
are, 
Putting  into  trills 
The  perfume  of  the   wild 
rose, 
The  murmur  of  the  rills  ? 

What  so  sweet  as  flowers. 

Clovers  white  and  red. 
Where     the     brown     bee- 
chemist 

Finds  its  daily  bread  ? 


What  so  sweet  as  sun-showers, 
When  the  big  cloud  passes, 

And  the  fairy  rainbow 

Seems  to  touch  the  grasses? 


What  so  sweet  as  winds  are, 
Blowing  from  the  woods, 

Hinting  in  their  music 
Of  dreamy  solitudes  ? 

Rain,  and  song,  and  flower, 
When  the  summer's  shine 

Makes  the  green  earth's  beauty 
Seem  a  thing  divine. 

Mary  N.  Pkescott. 


MATURE. 


321 


A  DREAM  OF  SUMMER. 

West  wind  and  sunshine 

Braided  together ; 
What  is  the  one  sign 

But  pleasant  weather? 

Birds  in  the  cherry  trees, 

Bees  in  the  clover ; 
Who  half  so  gay  as  these 

All  the  world  over? 

Violets  among  the  grass, 

Roses  regretting 
How  soon  the  summer'll  pass, 

Next  year  forgetting. 

Buds  sighing  in  their  sleep, 
"  Summer,  pray  grant  us 

Youth,  that  its  hloom  will  keep 
Fragrance  to  haunt  us  !" 

Rivulets  that  shine  and  sing, 

Sunbeams  abetting, 
Jso  more  remembering 

Their  frozen  fretting. 

Sweet  music  in  the  wind, 

Sun  in  the  showers ; 
All  these  we're  sure  to  find 

In  summer  hours. 

Mary  X.  Peescott. 


SUMMER  WOODS. 
Come  ye  into  the  summer  woods ; 

There  entereth  no  annoy  ; 
All  greenly  wave  the  chestnut  leaves, 

And  the  earth  is  full  of  joy. 

I  cannot  tell  you  half  the  sights 

Of  beauty  you  may  see, — 

The  bursts  of  golden  sunshine, 

And  many  a  shady  tree. 
21 


There,      lightly     swung     in     bowery 
glades, 
The  honeysuckles  twine  : 
i  There  blooms  the  rose-red  campion, 
I      And  the  dark-blue  columbine. 


322 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


There  grows    the   four-leaved   plant, 
"  true  love," 
In  some  dusk  woodland  spot ; 
There    grows   the   enchanter's   night- 
shade, 
And  the  wood  forget-me-not. 

And  many  a  merry  bird  is  there, 

Unscared  by  lawless  men  : 
The  blue-winged  jay,  the  woodpecker, 

And  the  golden-crested  wren. 

Come  down,  and  ye  shall  see  them  all, 

The  timid  and  the  bold, 
For  their  sweet  life  of  pleasantness, 

It  is  not  to  be  told. 

A.nd  far  within  that  summer  wood, 
Among  the  leaves  so  green, 

There  flows  a  little  gurgling  brook, 
The  brightest  e'er  was  seen. 

There  come  the  little  gentle  birds, 

Without  a  fear  of  ill, 
Down  to  the  murmuring  water's  edge, 

And  freely  drink  their  fill ; 

And  dash  about  and  splash  about, 

The  merry  little  things, 
And  look  askance  with  bright  black 
eyes, 

And  flirt  their  dripping  wings. 

I've  seen  the  freakish  squirrels  drop 
Down  from  their  leafy  tree, 

The  little  squirrels  with  the  old, — 
Great  joy  it  was  to  me  ! 

And  down  unto  the  running  brook 
I've  seen  them  nimbly  go ; 

And  the  bright  water  seemed  to  speak 
A  welcome  kind  and  low. 


The  nodding  plants  they  bowed  their 
heads, 

As  if,  in  heartsome  cheer, 
They  spake  unto  those  little  things, 

"Tis  merry  living  here !" 

Oh,  how  my  heart  ran  o'er  with  joy  ! 

I  saw  that  all  was  good, 
And  that  we  might  glean  up  delight 

All  round  us,  if  we  would. 

And   many    a   wood-mouse   dwelleth 
there, 

Beneath  the  old  wood  shade, 
And  all  day  long  has  work  to  do, 

Nor  is  of  aught  afraid. 

The   green   shoots  grow   above   their 
heads, 

And  roots  so  fresh  and  fine 
Beneath  their  feet ;  nor  is  there  strife 

'Mong  them  for  mine  and  thine. 

There  is  enough  for  every  one, 

And  they  lovingly  agree  ; 
We  might  learn  a  lesson,  all  of  us, 

Beneath  the  greenwood  tree. 

Mary  Howitt. 


THE  CHILD'S  WISH  IN  JUNE. 
Mother,   mother,   the   winds   are   at 

play ; 
Prithee  let  me  be  idle  to-day. 
Look,  dear  mother,  the  flowers  all  lie 
Languidly  under  the  bright  blue  sky. 

See  how  slowly  the  streamlet  glides  ; 
Look  how  the  violet  roguishly  hides ; 
Even  the  butterfly  rests  on  the  rose, 
And  scarcely  sips  the  sweets  as  he  goes. 

Poor  Tray  is  asleep  in  the  noonday  sun, 
And  the  flies  go  about  him  one  by  one ; 


N.1TURE. 


OQ9 

Oi-J 


And    Pussy    sits   near   with  a  sleepy 

grace, 
Without  ever  thinking  of  washing  her 

face. 

There   flies  a  bird   to  a  neighboring 

tree. 
But  very  lazily  flutters  he ; 
And  he  sits  and  twitters  a  gentle  note 
That  scarcely  ruffles  his  little  throat. 

You  bid  me  be  busy ;   but,  mother, 

hear 
The  humdrum   grasshopper   droning 

near; 
And  the  soft  west  wind  is  so  light  in 

its  play 
It  scarcely  moves  a  leaf  on  the  spray. 

I   wish,   oh,    I   wish,   I   was    yonder 

cloud, 
That  sails  about  with  its  misty  shroud ; 
Books  and  work  I  no  more  should  see, 
But  I'd  come  and  float,  dear  mother, 

o'er  thee. 

Caroline  Gilman. 


COME  INTO  THE  MEADOWS. 

Come  into  the  meadows, 

Beautiful  and  green  ; 
Primroses  and  cowslips 

Blooming  there  are  seen  ; 
Buttercups  and  daisies 

Springing  everywhere, 
Violets  and  cuckoo-flowers 

Peeping  here  and  there. 

Come  into  the  meadows  ; 

Greet  the  lark  at  morn. 
Rising  from  the  clover-field 

Or  the  springing  corn  ; 
Join  his  notes  of  gladness, 

Rosy  clouds  among ; 
Follow  him,  oh,  follow  him, 

With  a  merrv  song. 


Come  into  the  meadows, 
Where  the  lambkins  play ; 

Skip  with  them  all  merry 
Through  the  summer  day ; 


324 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


Down  the  dells  and  valleys, 
Up  the  banks,  now  run ; 

Sport  amid  the  shadows, 
Gambol  in  the  sun. 


Come  into  the  meadows  ; 

Meet  the  merry  bee, 
Sauntering  'mid  the  wild  thyme, 

Full  of  happy  glee ; 
As  he  sippeth  honey 

From  the  sweet  blue-bell, 
Lessons  of  rich  wisdom 
•    He  will  to  thee  tell. 

Come  into  the  meadows 

At  the  cooling  hour, 
When  the  clewdrops  glisten 

On  the  closing  flower ; 
When  the  stars  are  twinkling 

Through  the  vapors  dim, 
Think  of  thy  Creator, 

Sina;  a  song  to  Him. 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  SEED-CORN. 

The  sower  sows  with  even  hand 
The  seed-corn  o'er  the  softened  land, 
And,  wonderful,  where  it  is  sown 
The  tiny  seed-corn  still  lives  on. 

When  safe  within  the  earth  'tis  laid, 
A  hidden  power  is  soon  displayed : 
A  little  germ,  so  smooth  and  soft, 
Soon  rears  its  tin}7  head  aloft. 

Small,  weak,  and   cold,  it  comes   to 

view, 
And  begs  for  sunshine  and  for  dew ; 
And  then  the  sun  from  out  the  sky 
Looks  down  upon  it  pleasantly. 


But  now  are  coming  frost  and  storm, 
And  flee  for  shelter  man  and  worm ; 
The  little  seed  can't  run  away, 
But  in  the  wintry  field  must  stay. 


And  yet  it  does  not  come  to  harm  ; 
Falls  from  the  sky  a  mantle  warm, 
And,  folded  in  its  cloak  of  snow, 
It  sleeps  through  all  the  winds  that 
blowr. 


When  once  stern  Winter's  past  and 
gone, 

The  lark  sings  loud  and  wakes  the 
corn, 

For  Spring  brings  flowers  and  blos- 
som-sheen, 

And  decks  the  mead  with  freshest 
green. 


And   soon,  with   corn-ears   slim  and 

tall, 
The  pleasant  fields  are  covered  all ; 
And,  like  the  green  sea,  to  and  fro 
They  wrave  with  all  the  winds   that 

blow. 


Then  hotly  from  the  sky  at  noon 
The     sultry     Summer's     sun     looks 

down, 
Till  all  the  blooming  earth  beneath 
Lies  crowned  with  beauteous  harvest- 
wreath. 

The  reapers  come,  the  sickle  sounds, 
The   sheaves   are  piled,  and  upward 

mounts 
The  song  of  joy,  at  night  and  morn, 
For  Heaven's   best  gift  to  man — the 

corn. 


NATURE. 


525 


AUTUMN. 

Goldex  Autumn  comes  again, 
With  its  storms  of  wind  and  rain. 
With  its  fields  of  yellow  grain  ; 

Gifts  for  man  and  bird  and  brute 
In  its  wealth  of  luscious  fruit, 
In  its  store  of  precious  root. 

Trees    bend    down    with   plum    and 

pear, 
Rosy  apples  scent  the  air, 
Nuts  are  ripening  everywhere. 

Through  the  lanes  where  bind- weed 

weaves 
Graceful  wreaths  of  clustering  leaves, 
Home  the  reapers  bear  the  sheaves 

Sin  sins  loud  their  harvest-sons 
In  their  hearty  rustic  tongue — 
Singing  gayly,  old  and  young : 

Singing  loud  beside  the  wain. 
With  its  load  of  bursting  grain, 
Dropping  all  along  the  lane. 

Mice  and  ant  and  squirrel  fill 
Now  their  garners  at  their  will ; 
Only  drones  need  hunger  still. 


Flocks  of  sparrows  downward  fly 
From  their  hawthorn  perch  on  high. 
Pecking  each  one  greedily. 

Though  the  summer  flowers  are  dead. 
Still  the  poppy  rears  its  head, 
Flaunting  gayly  all  in  red ; 

Still  the  daisy,  large  and  white. 

Shining  like  a  star  at  night, 

In  the  hedgerow  twinkles  bright ; 

Still  the  "  traveller's  joy  "  is  seen, 
Snowy  white  o'er  leaves  of  green, 
Glittering  in  its  dewy  sheen ; 

Still  the  foxglove's  crimson  bell. 
And  the  fern-leaves  in  the  dell, 
Autumn's  parting  beauty  tell. 

Mrs.  Hawtrey. 

CHARLEY  AND  HIS  FATHER. 
The  birds  are  flown  away, 

The  flowers  are  dead  and  gone, 
The  clouds  look  cold  and  gray 

Around  the  setting  sun. 

The  trees  with  solemn  sighs 
Their  naked  branches  swing; 


326 


TEE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


The  winter  winds  arise, 
And  mournfully  they  sing. 

Upon  his  father's  knee 

Was  Charley's  happy  place, 

And  very  thoughtfully 
He  looked  up  in  his  face ; 

And  these  his  simple  words : 
"  Father,  how  cold  it  blows  ! 

What  'comes  of  all  the  birds 
Amidst  the  storms  and  snows  ?" 

"  They  fly  far,  far  away 

From  storms,  and  snows,  and  rain  ; 
But,  Charley  dear,  next  May 

They'll  all  come  back  again." 

"  And  will  my  flowers  come  too  ?" 

The  little  fellow  said, 
"  And  all  be  bright  and  new 

That  now  looks  cold  and  dead  ?" 

"  Oh  yes,  dear  ;  in  the  spring 
The  flowers  will  all  revive, 

The  birds  return  and  sing, 
And  all  be  made  alive." 

"  Who  shows  the  birds  the  way, 
Father,  that  they  must  go, 

And  brings  them  back  in  May, 
When  there  is  no^nore  snow? 

"And  when  no  flower  is  seen 

Upon  the  hill  and  plain, 
Who'll  make  it  all  so  green, 

And  bring  the  flowers  again  ?" 

"  My  son,  there  is  a  Power 

That  none  of  us  can  see, 
Takes  care  of  every  flower, 

Gives  life  to  every  tree. 

"  He  through  the  pathless  air 
Shows  little  birds  their  way ; 

And  we,  too,  are  His  care — 
He  guards  us  day  by  day." 


"  Father,  wThen  people  die, 

Will  they  come  back  in  May?" 

Tears  were  in  Charley's  eye  : 
"  Will  they,  dear  father,  say  ?" 

"  No,  they  will  never  come ; 

We  go  to  them,  my  boy, 
There  in  our  heavenly  home 

To  meet  in  endless  joy." 

Upon  his  father's  knee 

Still  Charley  kept  his  place, 

And  very  thoughtfully 
He  looked  up  in  his  face. 

Eliza  Follen. 

THE  FROST. 
The  Frost  looked  forth  one  still  clear 

night, 
And  whispered,  "  Now  I  shall  be  out 

of  sight; 
So  through   the  valley  and  over  the 

height 
In  silence  I'll  take  my  way : 
I  will  not  go  on  like  that  blustering 

train, 
The  wind  and  the  snow,  the  hail  and 

the  rain, 
Who  make  so  much  bustle  and  noise 

in  vain, 
But  I'll  be  as  busy  as  they." 

Then  he  flewT  to  the   mountain,  and 

powdered  its  crest; 
He  lit  on  the  trees,  and  their  boughs 

he  dressed 
In   diamond    beads;    and    over    the 

breast 
Of  the  quivering  lake  he  spread 
A  coat  of  mail,  that  it  need  not  fear 
The  downward  point  of  many  a  spear 
That  he  hung  on  its  margin,  far  and 

near, 
Where  a  rock  could  rear  its  head. 


NATURE. 


327 


He  went  to  the  windows  of  those  who 

slept, 
And    over    each    pane    like    a    fairy 

crept : 
Wherever  he  breathed,  wherever  he 

stept, 


But  he  did  one  thing  that  was  hardly 
fair : 

He  peeped  in  the  cupboard,  and  find- 
ing there 

That  all  had  forgotten  for  him. to  pre- 
pare— 


By   the    light    of   the   moon   were  |      "  Now,  just  to  set  them  a-thinking, 
seen  I'll   bite   this   basket   of  fruit,"   said 

Most    beautiful    things :    there    were  |  he, 

flowers  and  trees;  !  "  This  costly  pitcher  I'll  burst  in  three. 

There  were  bevies  of  birds  and  swarms    And  the  glass  of  water  they've  left  for 
of  bees ;  me 

There  were   cities  with   temples  and        Shall   'tchick!'   to/  tell    them    I'm 


towers;  and  these 
All  pictured  in  silver  sheen  ! 


drinking." 


Hannah  F.  Gould. 


r  #      J^ 


He  whistles  his  trills  with  a  wonder- 
ful knack, 
For  he  comes  from  a  cold  countree. 


OLD  WINTER  IS  COMING. 

Old  Winter  is  coming ;  alack,  alack  ! 

How  icy  and  cold  is  he  ! 

He's  wrapped  to  his  heels  in  a  snowy-  A  funny  old  fellow  is  Winter,  I  trow, 

white  sack,  A  merry  old  fellow  for  glee  ; 

The  trees  he  has  laden  till  ready  to  He   paints  all  the  noses  a  beautiful 

crack :  hue, 


328 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


He  counts  all  our  fingers,  and  pinches 

them  too ; 
Our   toes    he   gets   hold    of    through 

stocking  and  shoe, 
For  a  funny  old  fellow  is  he. 

Old  Winter  is  blowing  his  gusts  along, 

And  merrily  shaking  the  tree; 
From  morning  till  night  he  will  sing 

us  his  song, 
Now  moaning  and  short,  now  boldly 

and  long ; 
His  voice  it  is  loud,  for  his  lungs  are 
so  strong, 
And  a  merry  old  fellow  is  he. 

Old    Winter's    a   rough    old   chap   to 

some, 
As  rough  as  ever  you'll  see. 
"  I   wither    the   flowers   whenever    I 

come, 
I  quiet  the  brook  that  went  laughing 

along, 
I  drive  all  the  birds  off  to  find  a  new 

home ; 
I'm  as  rough  as  rough  can  be." 

A  cunning  old  fellow  is  Winter,  they 
say— 
A  cunning  old  fellow  is  he  ; 
He  peeps  in  the  crevices  day  by  day 
To   see   how  we're   passing  our  time 

away, 
And  mark  all  our  doings  from  sober 
to  gay  ; 
I'm  afraid  he  is  peeping  at  me  ! 


NURSE  WINTER. 

Baby  in  the  window  stood, 

Leaving  all  her  play, 
And,  with  pouting  lips  and  frown, 
Thus  I  heard  her  say : 


"  Naughty,  naughty  Winter  ! 
Will  you  never  go  ? 
All  the  pretty  walks  are  spoiled, 
Covered  up  with  snow. 

"  All  the  birds  are  scared  away 
But  the  chick-a-dees  ; 
And  they  shiver  as  they  sit 
In  the  cold,  bare  trees. 

"  Not  a  single  flower  is  left 
In  my  garden  there; 
Not  a  single  blade  of  grass ; 
Oh,  how  bad  you  are  !" 

Then  behind  the  curtain  I 

Crept,  and  thus  replied, 
Baby  listening,  with  blue  eyes 

Very  round  and  wide  : 

"  Naughty  baby,  to  call  names, 
Stupid  baby,  you ; 
Kind  old  Nursey  Winter 
Is  your  nursey  too — 

"  Nurse  as  well  to  all  the  flowers  ; 
They  were  glad  to  creep 
Underneath  my  bedclothes  white 
For  a  good  long  sleep. 

"  All  the  trees  put  off  their  clothes, 
Brave  and  bright  of  hue, 
Standing  up  to  take  their  naps, 
As  the  horses  do. 

"  All  the  birdies  left  their  nests 
In  my  watch  and  care, 
While  they  flew  off  to  the  south 
For  a  change  of  air. 

"  I  am  nurse  to  one  and  all — 
Babies,  too,  you  know  : 
Don't  I  kiss  their  soft,  round  cheeks 
Till  they  brighter  groAV  ? — 


NATURE. 


320 


"  Brighten  all  their  sunny  eyes, 
Curl  their  pretty  hair, 
Put  a  dance  into  their  blood 
With  my  dancing  air  ? 

"  When  the  birds  and  flowers  come 
back, 
Bright  and  strong  and  glad, 
Will  you  not  be  sorry  then 
That  you  called  me  bad?" 

As  I  ended,  baby  sprang 

With  a  merry  shout, 
Plucked  the  curtain  wide,  and  called, 
"  Ah  !  I've  found  you  out !" 

Susan  Coolidge. 

WINTER  JEWELS. 
A  million  little  diamonds 

Twinkled  on  the  trees, 
And  all  the  little  maidens  said, 

"  A  jewel,  if  you  please !" 
But   while  they  held  their   hands 
outstretched 

To  catch  the  diamonds  gay, 
A  million  little  sunbeams  came 

And  stole  them  all  away. 

THE  SNOWFALL. 
Old  Winter  comes  forth  in  his  robe 

of  white, 
He  sends  the  sweet  flowers  far  out  of 

sight, 
He  robs  the  trees  of  their  green  leaves 

quite, 
And  freezes  the  pond  and  the  river; 
He  has  spoiled  the  butterfly's  pretty 

vest, 
And  ordered  the  birds   not  to  build 

their  nest, 
And    banished    the    frog   to    a    four 

months'  rest, 
And  makes  all  the  children  shiver. 


Yet  he  does  some  good  with  his  icy 

tread, 
For  he  keeps  the  corn-seeds  warm  in 

their  bed, 
He  dries  up  the  damp  which  the  rain 

had  spread, 
And  renders  the  air  more  healthy ; 
He  taught  the  boys  to  slide,  and  lie 

flung 
Rich  Christmas  gifts  o'er  the  old  and 

young, 
And  when  cries  for  food  from  the  poor 

were  wrung, 
He  opened  the  purse  of  the  wealthy. 

We  like  the  Spring  with  its  fine  fresh 

air ; 
We  like  the  Summer  with  flowers  so 

fair ; 
We   like   the   fruits   we    in    Autumn 

share, 
And    we    like,    too,    old    Winter's 

greeting : 
His   touch   is   cold,  but  his  heart  is 

warm ; 
So,  though  he  brings  to  us  snow  and 

storm, 
We  look  with  a  smile   on  his  well- 
known  form, 
And  ours  is  a  gladsome  meeting. 

IT  SNOWS. 

It  snows !   it  snows !     From  out  the 

sky 
The   feathered   flakes   how  fast  they 

fly! 
Like    little    birds,   that   don't    know 

why 
They're  on  the  chase   from   place  to 

place, 
While  neither  can  the  other  trace. 
It  snows!  it  snows  !     A  merry  play 
Is  o'er  us  in  the  air  to-dav. 


330 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF    POETRY 


As  dancers  in  an  airy  hall 
That  hasn't  room  to  hold  them  all-, 
While  some  keep  up,  and  others  fall, 
The    atoms     shift,    then    thick    and 

swift 
They    drive  along  to  form  the  drift, 
That  waving  up,  so  dazzling  white, 
Is  rising  like  a  wall  of  white. 

But  now  the  wind  comes   whistling 

loud, 
To  snatch  and  waft  it  as  a  cloud, 
Or  giant  phantom  in  a  shroud. 
It   spreads,  it   curls,  it   mounts   and 

whirls  : 
At  length  a  mighty  wing  unfurls, 
And   then,   away  ! — but  where,  none 

knows, 
Or  ever  will.     It  snows  !  it  snows  ! 

To-morrow  will  the  storm  be  done ; 
Then  out  will  come  the  golden  sun  ; 
And  we  shall  see  upon  the  run, 
Before  his  beams,  in  sparkling  streams, 
What  now  a  curtain  o'er  him  seems. 
And  thus  with  life  it  ever  goes  ! 
Tis  shade  and  shine !     It  snows  !   it 
snows ! 

Hannah  F.  Gould. 

THE  SNOW-STORM. 
Two  wistful  young  faces  are  watching 

the  sky. 
A.  snow-flake !  another,  goes  scurrying 

by- 

"  'Tis   snowing !     'Tis  snowing !     Oh, 

mamma,  just  see ! 
The  ground  will  be  covered !  how  glad 

we  shall  be !" 

But   the   night  .hastens    on,  and   the 

shadows  grow  gray, 
Shutting  out  all  the  light  of  the  short 

wintry  day ; 


The  sleepy  eyes  droop,  and  each  little 

head 
Is  glad  to  lie  down  in  the  warm  cozy 

bed. 

Then  up  in  the  morning  as  soon  as  'tis 
light 

They  run  to  the  window.  Oh  won- 
derful sight ! 

White,  white  are  the  garden,  the  lawn, 
and  the  hill, 

And  downward  the  light  flakes  are 
fluttering  still. 

They  tie  on  their  caps  and  their  mit- 
tens so  warm, 

And  are  out  in  a  twinkling  to  laugh 
at  the  storm ! 

They  run  and  they  jump,  they  frolic 
and  shout, 

Such  ran  in  the  snow-drifts  to  tumble 
about ! 

They  come  in  to  breakfast  with  cheeks 
all  aglow, 

Their  locks  and  their  jackets  be- 
sprinkled with  snow ; 

"Cold?" — "Not  a  bit,  mamma;  the 
cold  we  don't  fear ; 

We  wish  'twould  be  winter  the  whole 
of  the  year." 

IT  SNOWS. 

"  It  snows !"  cries  the  school-boy ; "  hur- 
rah !"  and  his  shout 
Is  ringing  through  parlor  and  hall, 
While,  swift  as  the  wing  of  a  swallow, 
he's  out, 
And  his  playmates  have  answered 
his  call ; 
It  makes  the  heart  leap  but  to  witness 
their  joy  ; 
Proud  wealth  has  no  pleasure,  I  trow, 


NATURE. 


331 


Like  the  rapture  that  throhs   in  the  \  He  dreads  a  chill  puff  of  the  snow- 


pulse  of  the  boj 
As  he  gathers  his  treasures  of  snow. 
Then  lay  not  the  trappings  of  gold  on 

thine  heirs, 
While  health  and  the  riches  of  Nature 
are  theirs. 


"  It  snows  !"  sighs  the  invalid ;  "  ah  !" 
and  his  breath 
Comes    heavy,   as   clogged   with    a 
weight ; 
While  from  the  pale  aspect  of  Nature 
in  death 
He  turns  to  the  blaze  of  his  grate ; 
And  nearer  and  nearer  his  soft-cush- 
ioned chair 
Is  wheeled   toward   the   life-giving 
flame: 


burdened  air, 
Lest  it  wither  his  delicate  frame ; 
Oh,  small  is  the  pleasure  existence  can 

give 
When  the  fear  we  shall  die  only  proves 

that  we  live! 


"  It  snows !"  cries  the  traveller ;  "  ho !" 
and  the  word 
Has  quickened  his  steed's  lagging 
pace ; 
The  wind  rushes  by,  but  its  howl  is 
unheard, 
Unfelt  the  sharp  drift  in  his  face  ; 
For  bright  through  the  tempest  his 
own  home  appeared, 
Ay  —  through    leagues    intervened 
he  can  see ; 


332 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


There's  the  clear,  glowing  hearth,  and 

the  table  prepared, 
And  his  wife  with  her  babes  at  her 

knee ; 
Blest  thought!    how   it   lightens   the 

grief-laden  hour, 
That  those  Ave   love  dearest  are   safe 

from  its  power! 


"It   snows!"  cries   the   belle;  "clear, 
how  lucky  !"  and  turns 
From  her  mirror  to  watch  the  flakes 
fall ; 
Like  the  first  rose  of  summer  her  dim- 
pled cheek  burns, 
While   musing  on    sleigh-ride  and 
.  ball : 
There   are   visions   of    conquests,   of 
splendor,  and  mirth 
Floating   over  each  drear  winter's 
day ; 
But   the    tintings    of    hope    on   this 
storm-beaten  earth 
Will     melt    like    the    snow-flakes 
away : 
Turn,  turn  thee  to  Heaven,  fair  maiden, 

for  bliss — 
That  Avorld   has   a  pure  fount  ne'er 
opened  in  this. 


"  It   snows !"   cries    the   widow ;    "  0 
God  !"  and  her  sighs 
Have  stifled  the  voice  of  her  prayer; 
Its   burden    ye'll   read    in   her   tear- 
swollen  eyes, 
On  her  cheek  sunk  with  fasting  and 
care. 
'Tis  night,  and  her  fatherless  ask  her 
for  bread, 
But  "He  gives  the  young  ravens 
their  food," 


And  she  trusts  till  her  dark   hearth 

adds  horror  to  dread, 
And  she  lays  on  her  last  chip  of 

wood. 
Poor  sufferer !   that  sorrow  thy  God 

only  knows ; 
'Tis  a  most  bitter  lot  to  be  poor  when 

it  snows ! 


SKATING. 

Over  the  ice,  so  smooth  and  bright, 

How  we  skim  along ! 
This  is  one  of  the  merriest  sports 

Which  to  hardy  boys  belong. 
Hurrah  !  hurrah  !  for  the  ice  and  snow; 
Our  blood   is  warm   and   fresh,  you 
know. 

The  ice  is  as  strong  as  strong  can  be. 
And  what  have  we  to  fear  ? 

It  looks  like  a  solid  crystal  lake, 
So  beautifully  clear. 

Hurrah  !  hurrah  !  though  winter  it  is. 

There's  nothing  in  summer  so  fine  as 
this. 

Up  again  quickly,  my  gallant  friend, 

And  don't  lie  groaning  there  : 
You  had  better  be  moving  as  fast  as 
you  can, 
Or  you'll  feel  the  biting  air. 
Hurrah  !   hurrah  !   let  it  blow — let  it 

blow  ! 
For  our  limbs  are  strong  and  fleet,  you 
know. 

Come  hither,  come  hither,  both  young 
and  old, 
Nor  sit  all  day  by  the  fire ; 
Come,  stir  about ;  you  will  soon  feel 
warm, 
If  that  is  your  heart's  desire. 


NATURE. 


333 


Hurrah !  hurrah  !  who  would  not  be 

here 
On  the  lake  of  ice  so  strong  and  clear? 

This  is  the  sport  for  men  and  boys ; 
The  girls  in  the  house  may  stay : 
But  better  for  them  it  would  be,  I'm 
sure, 
In  the  clear  cold  air  to  play. 
Hurrah  !  hurrah!  there  is  nothing,  we 

know, 
Which  can  give  to  beauty  a  lovelier 
glow. 

Come  one,  come  all,  come  great  and 

small, 
This    is    the   pleasure    that    never 

grows  tame ; 
At  morning  and  evening,  and  every 

hour, 
And  year  after  year  it  is  ever  the 

same. 
Hurrah  !  hurrah  !  may  it  ever  be  so  ! 
Then  we  shall  never  grow  old,youknow. 

Susan  Jewett. 

THE  FOUNTAIN. 

Into  the  sunshine, 

Full  of  the  light, 
Leaping  and  flashing 

From  morn  till  night ! 

Into  the  moonlight, 

Whiter  than  snow, 
Waving  so  flower-like 

When  the  winds  blow  ! 

Into  the  starlight, 

Rushing  in  spray, 
Happy  at  midnight, 

Happy  by  day ! 

Ever  in  motion, 

Blithesome  and  cheery, 


Still  climbing  heavenward. 
Never  aweary ; 

Glad  of  all  weathers, 

Still  seeming  best, 
Upward  or  downward 

Motion  thy  rest ; 

Full  of  a  nature 

Nothing  can  tame, 
Changed  even^  moment, 

Ever  the  same  ; 

Ceaseless  aspiring, 

Ceaseless  content, 
Darkness  or  sunshine 

Thy  element ; 

Glorious  fountain ! 

Let  my  heart  be 
Fresh,  changeful,  constant, 

Upward  like  thee ! 

James  Russell  Lowell. 


STOP,  STOP,  PRETTY  WATER. 
"  Stop,  stop,  pretty  water !" 

Said  Mary  one  day, 
To  a  frolicsome  brook 

That  was  running  away  ; 

'"  You  run  on  so  last ! 

I  wish  you  would  stay  ; 
My  boat  and  my  flowers 
You  will  carry  away. 

"  But  I  will  run  after ; 

Mother  says  that  I  may ; 
For  I  would  know  where 
You  are  running  away." 

So  Mary  ran  on, 

But  I  have  heard  say 

That  she  never  could  find 
Where  the  brook  ran  away. 

Eliza  Follen. 


334 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


A   WISH. 
"  Be  my  fairy,  mother, 

Give  me  a  wish  to-day — 
Something  as  well  in  sunshine 

As  when  the  raindrops  play." 

"  And  if  I  were  a  fairy, 

With  but  one  wish  to  spare, 

What  should  I  give  thee,  darling, 
To  quiet  thine  earnest  prayer?" 


"  I'd  like  a  little  brook,  mother, 
All  for  my  very  own, 
To  laugh  all  day  among  the  trees, 
And  shine  on  the  mossy  stone  ; 

"To  run  right  under  the  window, 
And  sing  me  fast  asleep  ; 
With  soft  steps  and  a  tender  sound 
Over  the  grass  to  creep. 


I 


NATURE. 


335 


"  Make  it  run  down  the  hill,  mother, 
With  a  leap  like  a  tinkling  bell — 

So  fast  I  never  can  catch  the  leaf 
That  into  its  fountain  fell. 

"  Make  it  as  wild  as  a  frightened  bird, 

As  crazy  as  a  bee, 
With   a  noise  like  the  baby's  funny 
laugh — 

That's  the  brook  for  me !" 

Rose  Terry  Cooke. 

THE  COUNTRY  LAD   AND  THE  RIVER. 

A  country  lad  with  honest  air 

Stood  by  the  river-side  ; 
He  put  his  basket  calmly  down. 

And  gazed  upon  the  tide. 

Across  the  river's  rapid  flood 

He  saw  the  village  well ; 
'Twas  there  he  meant  to  see  his  aunt, 

And  there  his  turnips  sell. 

The  stream  was  full  with  recent  rain, 

And  flowed  so  swiftly  by, 
He  thought  he  would  with  patience 
wait, 

And  it  would  soon  be  dry. 

For  many  hours  he  waited  there, 
But  still  the  stream  flowed  on ; 

And  when  he  sadly  turned  away, 
The  summer  day  was  gone. 

His  turnips  might  have  gone  to  seed, 
His  aunt  have  pined  away, 

For  still  the  stream  kept  flowing  on, 
Nor  has  it  stopped  to-day. 

THE  BROOK. 

A  little  brook,  within  a  meadow, 
Went  winding  through  the  grass  ; 

So  calmly  flowed  its  crystal  waters 
They  looked  like  shining  glass. 


But  soon  it  reached  a  lofty  forest. 
And  danced  among  the  trees ; 

They  seemed  rejoiced  to  see  it  coming, 
And  rustled  in  the  breeze. 

The  brook  had  now  become  so  merry 
It  almost  seemed  to  shout ; 

It  leaped  among  the  bending  willows, 
And  whirled  the  leaves  about. 


Below  the  forest  was  a  valley, 
The  rock  between  was  steep  ; 

Yet,  madly  roaring,  on  it  hurried, 
Impatient  for  the  leap. 

Among  the  rocks  it  brightly  sparkled, 
And  filled  the  air  with  spray ; 

It  reached  the  valley  white  with  foam- 
ino- 
And  wildly  went  its  way. 

The  little  brook  now  ceased  its  frolic, 

A  calmer  course  to  take, 
And    through   the   valley   rolled    its 
waters, 

And  mingled  with  the  lake. 


336 


THE    CHILDREN'S    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 


I  come  from  haunts  of  coot  and  hern  : 

I  make  a  sudden  sally, 
And  sparkle  out  among  the  fern, 

To  bicker  down  a  valley. 

By  thirty  hills  I  hurry  down, 
Or  slip  between  the  ridges  ; 

By  twenty  thorps,  a  little  town, 
And  half  a  hundred  bridges. 

Till  last  by  Philip's  farm  I  flow 
To  join  the  brimming  river ; 

For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 
But  I  go  on  for  ever. 

I  chatter  over  stony  ways, 
In  little  sharps  and  trebles; 

I  bubble  into  eddying  bays, 
I  babble  on  the  pebbles. 

With  many  a  curve  my  banks  I  fret 
By  many  a  field  and  fallow, 

And  many  a  fairy  foreland  set 
With  willow-weed  and  mallow. 

I  chatter,  chatter,  as  I  flow 
To  join  the  brimming  river ; 


For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go. 
But  I  go  on  for  ever. 

I  wind  about,  and  in  and  out, 
With  here  a  blossom  sailing, 

And  here  and  there  a  lusty  trout, 
And  here  and  there  a  grayling. 

And  here  and  there  a  foamy  flake 

Upon  me,  as  I  travel, 
Wifh  many  a  silvery  waterbreak 

Above  the  golden  gravel ; 

And  draw  them  all  along,  and  flow 
To  join  the  brimming  river  ; 

For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 
But  I  go  on  for  ever. 

I  steal  by  lawns  and  grassy  plots ; 

I  slide  by  hazel  covers  ; 
I  move  the  sweet  forget-me-nots 

That  grow  for  happy  lovers. 

I  slip,  I  slide,  I  gloom,  I  glance, 
Among  my  skimming  swallows, 

I  make  the  netted  sunbeam  dance 
Against  my  sandy  shallows. 


NATURE. 


mi 


iPSf-SJ> 


I  murmur  under  moon  and  stars 

In  brambly  wildernesses ; 
I  linger  by  my  shingly  bars ; 

I  loiter  round  1113-  cresses ; 

And  out  again  I  curve  and  flow 
To  join  the  brimming  river ; 
For  men  may  come   and   men   may 

go, 
But  I  go  on  for  ever. 


Alfred  Tesxyson. 


22 


THE  SONG  OF  THE   BROOK. 

A  little  brook  went  surging 
O'er  golden  sands  along, 

And  as  I  listened  to  it 
It  whispered  in  its  song. 


Beneath  the  steady  mountain," 
I  thought  I  heard  it  say, 

My  crystal  waters  started 
Upon  their  winding  way. 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OE   POETRY. 


"  I  fondly  hoped  that  flowers 
Would  bloom  upon  each  side, 

And  sunshine  always  cheer  me 
Wherever  I  might  glide. 

"  Through  grassy  meadows  no  win! 

And  birds  on  every  tree, 
I  hoped  that  each  hour  passing 

Would  pleasure  bring  to  me. 


^\4 


"  But  hopes  once  bright  have  perished ; 

But  rarely  have  I  seen 
The  lovely  birds  and  flowers, 

The  meadows  soft  and  green. 

"  Through  barren  heaths  and  lonely 

My  way  has  often  led, 
Where  golden  sunshine  never 

Has  cheered  my  gloomy  bed. 

*  O'er  rocks  I've  had  to  travel ; 
O'er  precipices  steep 


I  onward  have  been  driven, 
And  madly  made  to  leap. 

"  The  winds  have  sighed  around  me, 
The  clouds  in  darkness  hung, 

And  sadness  has  been  mingled 
With  music  I  have  sung. 

"  But  still,  wherever  running, 
My  life  has  not  been  vain  ; 

I've  helped  to  grow  the  forests 
That  wave  across  the  plain. 

"  The  forests  build  the  cities, 
And  ships  that  sail  the  sea, 

And  the  mighty  forests  gather 
Their  nourishment  from  me. 

"  So  onward  !  onward  ever  ! 

'With  singing  I  will  go, 
However  dark  and  dreary 

The  scenes  through  which  I  flow." 

A  higher  law  than  pleasure 
Should  guide  me  in  my  way  ; 

Thus  'mid  the  rocks  and  forests 
Comes  music  every  day. 


THE  LITTLE  GIRL'S  ADDRESS  TO  THE 
RIVER. 

Gentle  river,  gentle  river, 
Tell  us,  whither  do  you  glide 

Through  the  green  and  sunny  mead- 
ows, 
With  your  sweetly-murmuring  tide  ? 

You  for  many  a  mile  must  wander, 

Many  a  lovely  prospect  see ; 
Gentle  river,  gentle  river, 
•  Oh,  how  happy  you  must  be ! 


NATURE. 


339 


Tell  us,  if  you  can  remember, 
Where  your  happy  life  began, 

When  at  first  from  some  high  moun- 
tain 
Like  a  silver  thread  you  ran. 

Say,  how  many  little  streamlets 

Gave   their    mite    your   depths   to 
swell  ? 

Coming  each  from  different  sources, 
Had  they  each  a  tale  to  tell? 

When,   a   playful    brook,   you    gam- 
bolled, 

And  the  sunshine  o'er  you  smiled, 
On  your  banks  did  children  loiter, 

Looking  for  the  spring  flowers  wild? 

Gentle  river,  gentle  river, 

Do  you  hear  a  word  we  say  ? 

I  am  sure  you  ought  to  love  us. 
For  we  come  here  every  day. 

Oh,  I  pray  you  wait  a  moment. 
And  a  message  bear  from  me 

To  a  darling  little  cousin 

We  should  dearly  love  to  see. 

You  will  know  her,  if  you  see  her. 
By  her  clear  and  laughing  eyes, 
For  they  sparkle  like  your  waters 

'Neath    the    bright    blue    summer 
skies. 

She's  a  pretty,  playful  creature. 
Light  of  heart  and  footstep  too  ; 

I  am  sure  you  must  have  seen  her, 
For  she  often  speaks  of  you. 

Oh,  do  tell  her,  gentle  river, 

That  we  think  of  her  each  day — 

That  we  have  not  ceased  to  miss  her 
Ever  since  she  went  away. 


Say  to  her  that  brother  Willie, 
Who  is  sitting  by  our  side, 

That  sweet  rose  she  gave  at  parting 
Cherished  fondly  till  it  died. 

Tell  her  too  that  mother  wishes 
She  could  hear  her  voice  once  more. 

See  her  eyes,  as  bright  as  sunshine, 
Peeping  at  the  parlor  door. 

Say  we  will  a  token  send  her, 

Which  upon  your  waves  we'll  fling — 

Flowers  from  out  our  little  garden. 
Fragrant  with  the  breath  of  spring. 

Gentle  river,  gentle  river, 

Though  you  stop  not  to  reply. 

Yet  you  seem  to  smile  upon  us 
As  you  quickly  pass  us  by. 

Soon  will  come  the  lovely  twilight, 
Lingering  brightly  in  the  west, 

And  each  little  bird  for  shelter 
Soon  will  seek  its  shady  nest ; 

And  the  stars  will  rise  above  you. 

Shining  all  the  livelong  night, 
Yet  you  ask  nor  rest  nor  slumber. 

Singing  still  with  free  delight. 

Year  by  year  the  same  sweet  story 
You  to  other  ears  will  tell ; 

Now  we  leave  you,  yet  we  love  you : 
Gentle  river,  fare  you  well ! 

Susan  Jewktt. 


THE  STREAMLET. 

I  saw  a  little  streamlet  flow 

Along  a  peaceful  vale ; 
A  thread  of  silver,  soft  and  slow. 

It  wandered  down  the  dale. 
Just  to  do  good  it  seemed  to  move, 
Directed  by  the  hand  of  Love. 


340 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


The  valley  smiled  in  living  green ; 

A  tree,  which  near  it  gave 
From  noontide  heat  a  friendly  screen, 

Drank  from  its  limpid  wave. 
The    swallow    brushed    it   with    her 

wing, 
And  followed  its  meandering. 

But  not  alone  to  plant  and  bird 
That  little  stream  was  known  : 

Its  gentle  murmur  far  was  heard; 
A  friend's  familiar  tone  ! 


It  glided  by  the  cotter's  door, 
It  blessed  the  labor  of  the  poor. 

And    would    that    I    could    thus    be 
found, 
While  travelling  life's  brief  way, 
A  humble  friend  to  all  around, 
Where'er  my  footsteps  stray ; 
Like  that  pure  stream,  with  tranquil 

breast, 
Like  it,  still  blessing  and  still  blest. 

M.  A.  Stodart. 


NATURE. 


341 


THE  WAVES  ON  THE  SEA-SHORE. 

Roll  on,  roll  on,  you  restless  waves. 

That  toss  about  and  roar  ; 
Why  do  you  run  all  back  again 

When  you  have  reached  the  shore? 
Roll  on,  roll  on,  you  noisy  waves, 

Roll  higher  up  the  strand  ; 
How  is  it  that  you  cannot  pass 

That  line  of  yellow  sand? 


Make  haste,  or  else  the  tide  will  turn ; 

Make  haste,  you  noisy  sea ; 
Roll  quite  across  the  bank,  and  then 

Far  oi>>across  the  lea. 
"  WTe  must  not  dare,"  the  waves  re- 

ply: 

"  That  line  of  yellow  sand 
Is  laid  along  the  shore  to  bound 
The  waters  and  the  land  ; 

"  And   all  should  keep  to   time  and 
place, 

And  all  should  keep  to  rule — 
Both  waves  upon  the  sandy  shore, 

And  little  boys  at  school. 
Thus  freely  on  the  sandy  beach 

We  dash  and  roll  away  ; 
While  you,  when  study-time  is  o'er. 

May  come  with  us  and  play." 

Aunt  Effies  Rhymes. 


THE  CATARACT  OF  LODORE. 

"  How  does  the  water 
Come  down  at  Lodore?" 
My  little  boy  ask'd  me 
Thus,  once  on  a  time; 
And  moreover  he  task'd  me 
To  tell  him  in  rhyme. 
Anon  at  the  word, 
There  first  came  one  daughter. 
And  then  came  another, 
To  second  and  third 
The  request  of  their  brother, 
And  to  hear  how  the  water 
Comes  down  at  Lodore, 
With  its  rush  and  its  roar, 

As  many  a  time 
They  had  seen  it  before. 
So  I  told  them  in  rhyme, 
For  of  rhymes  I  had  store  ; 
And  'twas  in  my  vocation 
For  their  recreation 
That  so  I  should  sing ; 
Because  I  was  Laureate 
To  them  and  the  Kino-. 


From  its  sources  which  well 
In  the  tarn  on  the  fell ; 
From  its  fountains 
In  the  mountains, 
Its  rills  and  its  gills  ; 
Through  moss  and  through  brake 
It  runs  and  it  creeps 
For  a  while,  till  it  sleeps 

In  its  own  little  lake. 

And  thence  at  departing, 

Awakening  and  starting, 

It  runs  through  the  reeds, 

And  away  it  proceeds 

Through  meadow  and  glade. 

In  sun  and  in  shade. 

And  through  the  wood-shelter, 

Among  crags  in  its  fiurrv, 


342 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


Helter-skelter, 
Hurry  -skurry. 

Here  it  comes  sparkling, 
And  there  it  lies  darkling, 
Now  smoking  and  frothing 
Its  tumult  and  wrath  in, 
Till  in  this  rapid  race 
On  which  it  is  bent, 
It  reaches  the  place 
Of  its  steep  descent. 

The  cataract  strong 

Then  plunges  along, 

Striking  and  raging, 

As  if  a  war  waging 
Its  caverns  and  rocks  among; 

Rising  and  leaping, 

Sinking  and  creeping, 
Swelling  and  sweeping, 
Showering  and  springing, 

Flying  and  flinging, 
Writhing  and  ringing, 
Eddying  and  whisking, 
Spouting  and  frisking, 
Turning  and  twisting, 

Around  and  around 
With  endless  rebound ; 

Smiting  and  fighting, 

A  sight  to  delight  in  ; 
'  Confounding,  astounding, 
Dizzying  and  deafening  the  ear  with 

its  sound. 

Collecting,  projecting, 
Receding  and  speeding, 
And  shocking  and  rocking, 
And  darting  and  parting, 
And  threading  and  spreading, 
And  whizzing  and  hissing, 
And  dripping  and  skipping, 
And  hitting  and  splitting, 
And  shining  and  twining,- 
And  rattling  and  battling, 


And  shaking  and  quaking, 
And  pouring  and  roaring, 
And  waving  and  raving, 
And  tossing  and  crossing, 
And  flowing  and  going, 
And  running  and  stunning, 
And  foaming  and  roaming, 
And  dinning  and  spinning, 
And  dropping  and  hopping, 
And  working  and  jerking, 
And  guggling  and  struggling, 
And  heaving  and  cleaving, 
And  moaning  and  groaning ; 

And  glittering  and  frittering, 
And  gathering  and  feathering, 
And  whitening  and  brightening, 
And  quivering  and  shivering, 
And  hurrying  and  skurrying, 
And  thundering  and  floundering; 

Dividing  and  gliding  and  sliding. 

And  falling  and  brawling  and  sprawl- 
ing,    . 

And  driving  and  riving  and  striving. 

And    sprinkling   and   twinkling    and 
wrinkling, 

And    sounding    and    bounding    and 
rounding, 

And    bubbling    and    troubling    and 
doubling, 

And    grumbling   and    rumbling   and 
tumbling, 
j  And  clattering  and  battering  and  shat- 
tering ; 

Retreating  and  beating  and  meeting 

and  sheeting, 
Delaying   and  straying  and  playing 

and  spraying, 
Advancing  and  prancing  and  glancing 

and  dancing, 


XATURE. 


343 


SESSU 


iV£^ '!< 'I  •!L^- 


'■'/^■s^trH"     rf 


Recoiling,  turmoiling  and  toiling  and  And  dashing  and  flashing  and  splash- 
boiling,  ing  and  clashing; 

And   gleaming    and    streaming    and  And  so  never  ending,  but  always  de- 
steaming  and  beaming,  spending, 

And  rushing  and  flushing  and  brush-  Sounds  and  motions  for  ever  and  ever 
ing  and  gushing,  are  blending. 

And  flapping  and  rapping  and  clap-  All  at  once  and  all  o'er,  with  a  mighty 
ping  and  slapping,  uproar. 

And  curling  and  whirling  and  purling  And  this  way  the  water  comes  down 
and  twirling,  at  Lodore. 

And   thumping   and   plumping    and  Robert  Southet. 

bumping  and  jumping,  I  — ** — 


544 


THE    CHILDREN'S    BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


THE  RAINBOW. 

The  rainbow,  how  glorious  it  is  in  the 
sky! 

And  yet  its  bright  colors  are  soft  to 
the  eye ; 

There  the  violet,  and  blue,  and  bright 
yellow  are  seen, 

And  orange,  and  red,  and  such  beau- 
tiful green. 

Oh,  I  wonder  what  paints  the  bright 

bow  in  the  sky  ! 
See   it   spreads  out   so   wide,  and   it 

arches  so  high, 
But  now  at  one  end  'tis  beginning  to 

fade, 
And  now  nothing  is  seen  but  a  cloud's 

misty  shade. 

'Tis    God    Avho    thus    paints    the    fair 

heavenly  bow, 
And  sets  it  on  high  His  great  mercy  to 

show  ; 


He  bids  men  look  on  it,  and  call  then 

to  mind 
His  promise  once  graciously  made  to 

mankind. 

The  sea  it  may  swell,  and  the  clouds 

roll  on  high, 
But  God  rules  the  sea  and  the  wild 

stormy  sky  ; 
And    ever   again    shall    the    sea    its 

bounds  know. 
Nor  o'er  the  dry  land  in  a  wide  deluge 

flow. 

Then,  when    in  the  sky  is  the  wide 

spanning  bow, 
It  shall  teach  me  God's  goodness  and 

mercy  to  know, 
And  that  glorious  God  it  shall  teach 

me  to  love 
Who  His  mercy  thus  paints  in  such 

colors  above. 

Clayton. 


J\A  TUBE. 


345 


Now  the  sun  is  sinking 

In  the  golden  west ; 
Birds  and  bees  and  children 

All  have  gone  to  rest ; 
And  the  merry  streamlet, 

As  it  runs  along, 
With  a  voice  of  sweetness 

Sings  its  evening  song. 


NOW  THE  SUN  IS  SINKING. 

Cowslip,  daisy,  violet, 

In  their  little  beds, 
All  among  the  grasses, 

Hide  their  heavy  heads  ; 
There  they'll  all,  sweet  darlings  ! 

Lie  in  happy  dreams 
Till  the  rosy  morning 

Wakes  them  with  its  beams. 


THE  NEW  MOON. 

Dear  mother,  how  pretty 
The  moon  looks  to-night ! 

She  was  never  so  cunning  before ; 
Her  two  little  horns 
Are  so  sharp  and  so  bright, 

I  hope  shell  not  grow  any  more. 

If  I  were  up  there 

With  you  and  my  friends, 

I'd  rock  in  it  nicely,  you'd  see; 
I'd  sit  in  the  middle 
And  hold  by  both  ends ; 

Oh.  what  a  bright  cradle  'twould  be ! 


I  would  call  to  the  stars 
To  keep  out  of  the  way. 

Lest  we  should  rock  over  their  toes  ; 
And  then  I  would  rock 
Till  the  dawn  of  the  day. 

And  see  where  the  pretty  moon  goes. 

And  there  we  would  stay 

In  the  beautiful  skies. 
And   through    the    bright    clouds    we 
would  roam ; 

We  would  see  the  sun  set. 

And  see  the  sun  rise, 
And  on  the  next  rainbow  come  home. 

Eliza  Eollen. 


346 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF    POETRY. 


IS  THE  MOON  MADE  OF  GREEN  CHEESE  ?  I  And  soon  she  ran  laughing  to  papa, 

,,  0  T  ,  ,    r  ,  And  her  laughter  ran  all  through 

Say,  papa,  1  want  you  to  listen, 

So  lay  down  your  newspaper,  please ; 


Sister  Mary  has  just  been  a-saying 
That  the  moon  is  made  out  of  green 
cheese. 

';  I  told  her  'twould  get  awful  mouldy  ; 
And  she  said  there's  a  man  with  a 
hoe 
Who  lives  there,  and  scrapes  all  the 
mould  off; 
But  I  do  not  believe  it  is  so." 

Papa  laughed  a  little  at  Jennie 

As  he  stroked  down  the  curls  on  her 
head : 
"  And  why  now,  my  dear  little  daugh- 
ter, 
Don't  you  trust  what  your  sister  has 
said  ?" 

;'  Because— why,  of  course  she  knows 
nothing 
Of  the  moon,  for  it's  off  very  far ; 
There's  not  any  green  cheese  about  it ; 
Why,  of  course  not — now  is  there, 
papa  ?" 

"  You  must  not  ask   me   such   hard 
questions." 

Then  papa  gave  Jennie  a  kiss  : 
"Now  go  and  find  out  yourself,  Jennie, 

Then  come  and  tell  me  how  it  is." 

Then  Jennie  went  right  to  her  Bible, 
Where  it  tells  how  the  world  had 
its  birth, 
And  she  read  all  about  the  creation, 
How  God  made  the   heavens   and 
earth. 


the  house — 
"  Oh,  papa,  there's  no  green  cheese  in  it, 
For    the    moon   was   made   before 
cows." 

Nicholas  Nichols. 


LADY  MOON. 

I  see  the  Moon,  and  the  Moon  sees  me  ; 
God  bless  the  Moon  !  and  God  bless  me  ! 

Old  Rhyme. 

Lady  Moon,  Lady  Moon,  where  are 
you  roving? 

Over  the  sea. 
Lady  Moon,  Lady   Moon,  whom  are 
you  loving  ? 

All  that  love  me. 


Are   you    not  tired  with    rolling,  and 
never 

Resting  to  sleep  ? 
Why  look  so  pale  and  so  sad,  as  for 
ever 

Wishing  to  weep  ? 


Ask  me  not  this,  little  child,  if  you 
love  me  : 

You  are  too  bold  : 
I  must  obey  my  dear  Father  above 
me, 

And  do  as  I'm  told. 


Lady  Moon,  Lady  Moon,  where  are 
you  roving? 

Over  the  sea. 
Lady  Moon,   Lady  Moon,  whom  are 
you  loving  ? 

All  that  love  me. 

Richard  Monckton  Milnes. 


NATURE. 


347 


OH,  LOOK  AT  THE  MOON! 
Oh,  look  at  the  moon  ! 

She  is  shining  up  there  ; 
Oh,  mother,  she  looks 
Like  a  lamp  in  the  air! 

Last  week  she  was  smaller, 
And  shaped  like  a  bow  ; 

But  now  she's  grown  bigger, 
And  round  as  an  0. 


Pretty  moon,  pretty  moon, 
How  you  shine  on  the  door, 

And  make  it  all  bright 
On  my  nursery  floor ! 

You  shine  on  my  playthings, 
And  show  me  their  place  ; 

And  I  love  to  look  up 

At  your  pretty  bright  face. 


348 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


And  there  is  a  star 

Close  by  you,  and  may  be 
That  small  twinkling  star 

Is  your  little  baby. 


Eliza  Follen. 


LITTLE  STAR. 

Twinkle,  twinkle,  little  star; 
How  I  wonder  wbat  you  are  ! 
Up  above  the  world  so  high, 
Like  a  diamond  in  the  sky. 


When  the  glorious  sun  is  set, 
When  the  grass  with  dew  is  wet, 
Then  you  show  your  little  light, 
Twinkle,  twinkle,  all  the  night. 

In  the  dark  blue  sky  you  keep, 
And  often  through  my  curtains  peep 
For  you  never  shut  your  eye 
Till  the  sun  is  in  the  skv. 


As  your  bright  and  tiny  spark 
Lights  the  traveller  in  the  dark, 
Though  I  know  not  what  you  are, 
Twinkle,  twinkle,  little  star. 


THE  LITTLE  BOY  AND  THE  STARS. 
You  little  twinkling  stars  that  shine 

Above  my  head  so  high, 
If  I  had  but  a  pair  of  wings 

I'd  join  you  in  the  sky. 

I  am  not  happy  lying  here, 
With  neither  book  nor  toy, 


For  I  am  sent  to  bed,  because 
I've  been  a  naughty  boy. 

If  you  will  listen,  little  stars, 
I'll  tell  you  all  I  did  : 

I  only  said  I  would  not  do 
The  thing  that  I  was  bid! 


NATURE. 


349 


I'm  six  years  old  this  very  day, 
And  I  can  write  and  read, 

And  not  to  have  my  own  way  yet 
Is  very  hard  indeed. 

I  do  not  know  how  old  you  are, 
Or  whether  you  can  speak, 

But  you  may  twinkle  all  night  long 
And  play  at  hide-and-seek. 

If  I  were  with  you,  little  stars, 

How  merrily  we'd  roll 
Across   the    skies,    and    through   the 
clouds, 

And  round  about  the  pole ! 

The  moon,  that  once  was  round  and 
full, 
Is  now  a  silver  boat ; 
We'd  launch  it  off  that  bright-edged 
cloud, 
And  then — how  we  should  float ! 

Does  anybody  say,  "  Be  still," 

When  you  would  dance  and  play  ? 

Does  anybody  hinder  j^ou 

When  you  would  have  your  way  ? 

Oh,  tell  me,  little  stars,  for  much 

I  wonder  why  you  go 
The  whole  night  long  from  east  to  west, 

So  patiently  and  slow  ! 

"  We  have  a  Father,  little  child, 
Who  guides  us  on  our  way  ; 

We  never  question — when  He  speaks 
We  listen  and  obev." 


"  Look,  mother,  up  at  that  beautiful 

star, 
Shining  and  glimmering  down  from 

afar, 
How  it  Avatches  over  me. 

"  Every  night  as  I  fall  asleep 
In  at  the  window  it  comes  to  peep. 
White,  and  clear,  and  calm. 

"  Often  I  think  the  bright  star  must  be 
The  eye  of  our  Father  looking  on  mc 
Keeping  me  safe  from  harm.1' 

"  Little  one,  pretty  one,  turn  where  we 

will, 
God  in  His  mercy  is  guarding  us  still ; 
Child,  He  is  everywhere. 

"  Down  in  the  depths,  or  up  in  the  sky, 
None  from  His  presence  away  can  fly  ; 
By  day,  by  night  He  is  there. 

"  That  brilliant  star  that  is  gleaming 

bright 
Is  a  world  like  ours  of  life  and  light, 
Created  by  His  will. 

"  He  dwelleth  there  as   He  dwelleth 

here, 
Both  far  away,  and  as  closely  near. 
He  hears,  He  sees  us  still. 


i  "  Trustfully  rest  in  thy  fancy  fair, 
aunt  effie's  Rhymes.       Truly  thy  Father  keeps  vigil  there 
+ —  Over  thee,  over  us  all. 


THE  CHILD  AND  THE  STAR. 
"  Tell  me,  my  little  one,  tell  me  why, 
Silent  and  steadfast,  you  gaze  on  high  : 
What  does  my  darling  see?'1 


"  Innocent  little  one,  gazing  above. 
Look  up  for  ever  in  faith  and  in  love, 
Whatever  in  life  befall," 

C.  B. 


350 


THE    CHILDREN'S    BOOK    OF  POETRY 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  ANGELS. 


A  little  girl  was  disappointed  when  her  mother  told 
her  what  the  stars  were.  She  said,  "  I  thought  they 
were  the  eyes  of  the  angels." 

"  Mother,  what  are  those  little  things 
That  twinkle  from  the  skies  ?" 

"  The  stars,  my  child."—"  I  thought, 
mother, 
They  were  the  angels'  eyes. 


"  They  look  down  on  me  so  like  yours. 

As  beautiful  and  mild, 
When  by  my  crib  you  used  to  sit, 

And  watch  your  feverish  child. 


"  And  always,  when  I  shut  my  eyes, 
And  said  my  little  prayers, 

T  felt  so  safe,  because  I  knew 
That  they  had  opened  theirs.'' 


CJEORr.E  Washington  Doane. 


GOOD-NIGHT  AND   GOOD-MORNING. 

A  fair  little  girl  sat  under  a  tree, 
Sewing  as  long  as  her  eyes  could  see ; 
Then  smoothed  her  work  and  folded 

it  right, 
And   said,    "  Dear   work,   good-night, 

good-night !" 


Such  a  number  of  rooks  came  over 
her  head, 

Crying  "  Caw  !  caw  !"  on  their  way  to 
bed, 

She  said,  as  she  watched  their  curious 
flight, 

"  Little  black  things,  good-night,  good- 
night!" 


NATURE. 


\b\ 


The   horses    neighed,   and   the   o'xen  i  The    tall    pink    foxglove    bowed    his 

lowed,  head ; 

The    sheep's    "Bleat!    bleat!1'    came  !  The  violets  curtsied,  and  went  to  bed  ; 

over  the  road  ;  j  And  good  little  Lucy  tied  up  her  hair, 

All  seeming  to  say,  with  a  quiet  de-    And  said,  on  her  knees,  her  favorite 

light,  prayer. 

'"Good   little   girl,   good-night,    good-      \     1       1  -i  i  -n         \,        ca 

^     '   fe  &     j   &     .       And,  while  on  her  pillow  she  soitlv 

night!"  ;  iav> 

She  did  not  say  to  the  sun,  "Good-    She  knew  nothing  more  till  again  it 

night !"  was  day  ; 

Though  she  saw  him  there  like  a  ball  {  And  all  things  said  to  the  beautiful 

of  light  ;  sun, 

For  she  knew  he  had  God's  time  to  keep  \  "Good-morning,   good-morning!    our 
Allovertheworld,andnevercouldsleep.  work  is  begun." 

Richard  Monckton  Milses. 


GOOD-NIGHT. 

"  Good-xight  !"  said  the  plough  to  the  j  "  Good-night !"  said  the  hen,  when  her 

weary  old  horse  ;  supper  was  done, 

And    Dobbin    responded,    "  Good-  .      To  Fanny,  who  stood  in  the  door  ; 

night!"'  '"Good-night!"       answered      Fanny; 

Then,  with  Tom  on  his  back,  to  the  .  "come  back  in  the  morn, 

farm-house  he  turned,  And  you  and  your  chicks  shall  have 

With  a  feeling  of  quiet  delight,  more." 

| 
""Good-night!"    said   the   ox.  with    a    "  Quack,  quack !"  said  the  duck;  "I 

comical  bow,  wish  you  all  well, 

As  he  turned  from  the  heavy  old  cart,  Though  I  cannot  tell  what  is  polite." 

Which  laughed  till  it  shook  a  round  "  The  will   for   the   deed,"   answered 

wheel  from  its  side,  Benny  the  brave  ; 

Then    creaked    out,    "  Good-night,  "  Good-night,  Madam  Ducky,  good- 

from  my  heart !"  night !" 


352 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


The  geese  were  parading  the  beautiful 
green, 
But  the  goslings  were  wearied  out 
quite ; 
.So,  shutting  their  peepers,  from  under 
the  wing 
They  murmured   a   sleepy  "Good- 
night !" 

Now  the  shades  of  evening  were  gath- 
ering apace 
And    fading    the     last    gleam     of 
light ; 
So  to  father  and  mother,  both  Fanny 
and  Ben 
Gave  a  kiss  and  a  hearty  "  Good- 
night !" 

NATURE'S  VOICE. 
Whatever  mine  ears  can  hear, 
Whatever  mine  eyes  can  see, 
In  Nature  so  bright 
With  beauty  and  light, 
Has  a  message  of  love  for  me. 


Gk»rious  clouds  !  as  ye  sail 
Over  the  clear  blue  sky, 
Ye  tell  of  the  hour 
When  the  Lord  of  power 
In   clouds   shall   descend    from   on 
high  ! 

Ye  sheep  that  on  pastures  green 
Beside  the  still  waters  feed, 
Ye  bring  to  my  mind 
The  Shepherd  so  kind 
Who  supplies  all  His  people's  need. 

The  birds  as  they  soar  aloft. 

The  flowers  as  they  bloom  below. 

His  praises  declare 

Who  made  all  so  fair, — 
His  wisdom  and  love  they  show. 

Lord,  give  me  a  tongue  to  praise ; 
Oh,  give  me  a  heart  to  love  ! 
Till  at  last  I  come 
To  a  brighter  home, 
A  still  fairer  world  above ! 

a.  l.  o.  E. 


RELIGION 


2?> 


Religion 


FOR  THE  CHILDREN. 


Come  stand  by  my  knee,  little  chil- 
dren, 

Too  weary  for  laughter  or  song ; 
The  sports  of  the  daylight  are  over, 

And  evening  is  creeping  along ; 


The  snow-fields  are  white  in  the  moon- 
light, 
The  winds  of  the  winter  are  chill, 
But  under  the  sheltering  roof-tree 
'  The  fire  shineth  ruddy  and  still. 

355 


356 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY 


You  sit  by  the  fire,  little  children, 

Your  cheeks  are  ruddy  and  warm ; 
But  out  in  the  cold  of  the  winter 

Is  many  a  shivering  form. 
There   are   mothers  that  wander  for 
shelter, 
And    babes    that     are    pining    for 
bread ; 
Oh !  thank  the  dear  Lord,  little  chil- 
dren, 
From  whose  tender  hand  you  are 
fed. 

Come  look  in  my  eyes,  little  children, 

And  tell  me,  through  all  the  long 
day 
Have  you  thought  of  the  Father  above 
us, 

Who  guarded  from  evil  our  way  ? 
He  heareth  the  cry  of  the  sparrow, 

And  careth  for  great  and  for  small; 
In  life  and  in  death,  little  children, 

His  love  is  the  truest  of  all. 

Now  come  to  your  rest,  little  children, 

And  over  your  innocent  sleep, 
Unseen  by  your  vision,  the  angels 

Their  watch  through  the  darkness 
shall  keep ; 
Then   pray   that   the  Shepherd   who 
guideth 

The  lambs  that  He  loveth  so  Avell 
May  lead  you,  in  life's  rosy  morning, 

Beside  the  still  waters  to  dwell. 


WHAT  GOD  SEES. 

When  the  winter  snow-flakes  fall, 
God  in  heaven  can  count  them  all ; 
When  the  stars  are  shining  bright, 
Out  upon  a  frosty  night, 


God  can  tell  them  all  the  same, 
God  can  give  each  star  its  name. 

God  in  heaven  can  also  see 
Children  in  their  play  agree, 
Never  rude,  or  cross,  or  wild, 
Always  kind,  forbearing,  mild. 
Angels  from  their  homes  of  light 
Gladlv  look  on  such  a  sight. 


A  CHILD'S  THOUGHT  OF  GOD. 
They  say  that  God  lives  very  high  ; 

But  if  you  look  above  the  pines 
You  cannot  see  our  God  ;  and  why? 

And  if  you  dig  down  in  the  mines, 
You  never  see  Him  in  the  gold, 
Though   from   Him   all   that's   glory 
shines. 


God  is  so  good,  He  wears  a  fold 
Of   heaven   and   earth   across 
face, 
Like  secrets  kept  for  love  untold. 


His 


But  still  I  feel  that  His  embrace 
Slides  down  by  thrills  through  all 

things  made, 
Through  sight  and   sound    of   every 

place  ; 

As  if  my  tender  mother  laid 

On  my  shut  lips  her  kisses'  pres- 
sure, 
Half  waking  me  at  night,  and  said, 
"Who  kissed  you  through  the  dark, 
dear  guesser?" 

Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning. 


RELIUIOX 


vm 


*s 


GOD  IS  GOOD. 

$}  See  the  shining  dew- 
I   ;  drops 

\      On    the    flowerets 
/  strewed. 

f    Proving,      as       they 
sparkle, 
'•'  God       is        ever 
good!" 


\i  i 


,  Sec   the    morning     sun- 
U  beams 

f       Lighting  up  the  wood, 
Silently  proclaiming, 
"  God  is  ever  good  !" 

Hear     the      mountain- 
streamlet 

•     In  the  solitude, 
With  its  ripple,  saying, 
"  God  is  ever  good !"' 


Bring,  my  heart,  thy  tribute — 

Songs  of  gratitude — 
While  all  Nature  utters, 

"  God  is  ever  good  !" 

THE  HEAVENLY  FATHER. 

Can  you  count  the  stars  that  brightly 

Twinkle  in  the  midnight  sky  ? 
Can  you  count  the  clouds  so  lightly 


O'er  the  meadows  floatin 


g  bv 


In  the  leafy  tree-tops, 
Where  no  fears  intrude, 
Joyous  birds  are  singing, 
"  God  is  ever  good  !:' 


God  the  Lord  doth  mark  their  num- 
ber 
With  his  eyes,  that  never  slumber ; 
He  hath  made  them,  every  one. 

Can  you  count  the  insects  playing 
In  the  summer  sun's  bright  beam  ? 

Can  you  count  the  fishes  straying,  . 
Darting  through  the  silver  stream  ? 

Unto  each,  by  God  in  heaven, 

Life  and  food  and  strength  are  given  : 
He  doth  watch'  them,  every  one. 

Do  you  know  how  many  children 
Rise  each  morning  blithe  and  gay  ? 

Can  you  count  the  little  voices 
Singing  sweetly  day  by  day  ? 


358 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


God  hears  all  the  little  voices, 
In  their  infant  songs  rejoices ; 
He  doth  love  them,  every  one. 

THE  GOD  OF  MY  CHILDHOOD. 

0  God  !  who  wert  my  childhood's  love, 
My  boyhood's  pure  delight, 

A  presence  felt  the  livelong  day, 
A  welcome  fear  at  night, 

Oh  let  me  speak  to  Thee,  dear  God ! 

Of  those  old  mercies  past, 
O'er  which  new  mercies  day  by  day 

Such  lengthening  shadows  cast. 

They  bade  me  call  Thee  Father,  Lord  ! 

Sweet  was  the  freedom  deemed  ; 
And  yet  more  like  a  mother's  ways 

Thy  quiet  mercies  seemed. 

At  school  Thou  wert  a  kindly  face 
Which  I  could  almost  see ; 

But  home  and  holiday  appeared 
Somehow  more  full  of  Thee. 

1  could  not  sleep  unless  Thy  hand 
Were  underneath  my  head, 

That  I  might  kiss  it  if  I  lay 
Wakeful  upon  my  bed. 

And  quite  alone  I  never  felt ; 

I  knew  that  Thou  wert  near — 
A  silence  tingling  in  the  room ; 

A  strangely  pleasant  fear. 

And  to  home-Sundays  long  since  past 
How  fondly  memory  clings  ! 

For  then  my  mother  told  of  Thee 
Such  sweet,  such  wondrous  things. 

I  know  not  what  I  thought  of  Thee ; 

What  picture  I  had  made 
Of  that  Eternal  Majesty 

To  whom  my  childhood  prayed. 

I  know  I  used  to  lie  awake 
And  tremble  at  the  shape 


Of  my  own  thoughts,  yet  did  not  wish 
Thy  terrors  to  escape. 

I  had  no  secrets  as  a  child, 

Yet  never  spoke  of  Thee ; 
The  nights  we  spent  together,  Lord  ! 

Were  only  known  to  me. 

I  lived  two  lives,  which  seemed  distinct, 
Yet  which  did  intertwine: 

One  was  my  mother's — it  is  gone — 
The  other,  Lord  !  was  Thine. 

I  never  wandered  from  Thee,  Lord  ! 

But  sinned  before  Thy  face ; 
Yet  now,  on  looking  back,  my  sins 

Seem  all  beset  with  grace. 

With  age  Thou  grewest  more  divine, 
More  glorious  than  before  ; 

I  feared  Thee  with  a  deeper  fear, 
Because  I  loved  Thee  more. 

Thou  broadenest  out  with  every  year 
Each  breadth  of  life  to  meet ; 

I  scarce  can  think  Thou  art  the  same, 
Thou  art  so  much  more  sweet. 

Changed  and  not  changed,  Thy  present 
charms 

Thy  past  ones  only  prove  ; 
Oh  make  my  heart  more  strong  to  bear 

This  newness  of  Thy  love  ! 

These  novelties  of  love ! — when  will 
Thy  goodness  find  an  end? 

Whither  will  Thy  compassions,  Lord, 
Incredibly  extend  ? 

Father!  what  hast  Thou  grown  to  now  ? 

A  joy  all  joys  above, 
Something  more  sacred  than  a  fear, 

More  tender  than  a  love  ! 

With  gentle  swiftness  lead  me  on, 
Dear  God  !  to  see  Thy  face, 

And  meanwhile  in  my  narrow  heart 
Oh  make  Thyself  more  space ! 

Frederick  W.  Faber. 


RELIGION. 


359 


THE  OLD,  OLD  STORY. 
PART  I. 

THE  STORY   WANTED. 

Tell  me  the  old,  old  story, 
Of  unseen  things  above, 

Of  Jesus  and  His  glory, 
Of  Jesus  and  His  love. 

Tell  me  the  story  simply, 

As  to  a  little  child ; 
For  I  am  weak  and  weary, 

And  helpless,  and  defiled. 

Tell  me  the  story  slowly, 
That  I  may  take  it  in, — 

That  wonderful  redemption, 
God's  remedy  for  sin  ! 

Tell  me  the  story  often. 

For  I  forget  so  soon  ; 
The  "  early  dew  "  of  morning 

Has  passed  away  at  noon  ! 

Tell  me  the  story  softly, 

With  earnest  tones  and  grave 

Remember,  I'm  the  sinner 
Whom  Jesus  came  to  save. 

TeJl  me  the  story  always, 
If  you  would  really  be, 

In  any  time  of  trouble, 
A  comforter  to  me. 


Tell  me  the  same  old  story 
When  you  have  cause  to  fear 

That  this  world's  empty  glory 
Is  costing  me  too  dear. 

Yes,  and  when  that  world's  glory 
Shall  dawn  upon  my  soul, 

Tell  me  the  old,  old  story, 

"  Christ  Jesus  makes  thee  whole ! 


PART  II. 

THE  STORY  TOLD. 


You  ask  me  for  "  the  story 
Of  unseen  things  above  ; 

Of  Jesus  and  his  glory, 
Of  Jesus  and  his  love." 

You  want  the  "  old,  old  story,' 
And  nothing  else  will  do? 

Indeed,  I  cannot  wonder, 
It  always  seems  so  new  ! 

I  often  wish  that  some  one 
Would  tell  it  me  each  day  : 

I  never  should  get  tired 
Of  what  they  had  to  say. 

But  I  am  wasting  moments ! 

Oh,  how  shall  I  begin 
To  tell  the  "  old,  old  story,'1 

How  Jesus  saves  from  sin? 


560 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


Listen  and  I  will  tell  you ; 

God  help  both  you  and  me, 
And  make  the  "old,  old  story" 

His  message  unto  thee  ! 


Once  in  a  pleasant  garden 
God  placed  a  happy  pair ; 

And  all  within  was  peaceful, 
And  all  around  was  fair, 

But  oh,  they  disobeyed  Him  ! 

The  one  thing  He  denied 
They  longed  for,  took,  and  tasted ; 

They  ate  it,  and — they  died  ! 

Yet,  in  His  love  and  pity 
At  once  the  Lord  declared 

How  man,  though  lost  and  ruined, 
Might  after  all  be  spared. 

For  one  of  Eve's  descendants, 

Not  sinful,  like  the  rest, 
Should  spoil  the  work  of  Satan, 

And  man  be  saved  and  blest. 

He  should  be  son  of  Adam, 
But  Son  of  God  as  well, 

And  bring  a  full  salvation 

From  sin,  and  death,  and  hell. 


Hundreds  of  years  were  over, 
Adam  and  Eve  had  died, 

The  following  generation, 
And  many. more  beside. 

At  last,  some  shepherds,  watching 
Beside  their  flocks  at  night, 

Were  startled  in  the  darkness 
By  strange  and  heavenly  light. 

One  of  the  holy  angels 

Had  come  from  heaven  above 


To  tell  the  true,  true  story 
Of  Jesus  and  His  love. 

He  came  to  bring  glad  tidings  : 
"  You  need  not,  must  not,  fear ; 

For  Christ,  your  new-born  Saviour. 
Lies  in  the  village  near  !" 

And  many  other  angels 
Took  up  the  story  then  : 

"  To  God  on  high  be  glory, 
Good-will,  and  peace  to  men." 

And  was  it  true,  that  story  ? 

They  went  at  once  to  see, 
And  found  Him  in  a  manger, 

And  knew  that  it  was  He. 

He  whom  the  Father  promised, 

So  many  ages  past, 
Had  come  to  save  poor  sinners  ; 

Yes,  He  had  come  at  last ! 

He  was  "  content  to  do  it," 
To  seek  and  save  the  lost, 

Although  He  knew  beforehand — 
Knew  all  that  it  would  cost. 

He  lived  a  life  most  holy  ; 

His  every  thought  was  love, 
And  every  action  showed  it, 

To  man,  and  God  above. 

His  path  in  life  was  lowly, 
He  was  a  "  working  man.*'1 

Who  knows  the  poor  man's  trials 
So  well  as  Jesus  can  ? 


His  last  three  years  were  lovely ; 

He  could  no  more  be  hid  ; 
And  time  and  strength  would  fail  me 

To  tell  the  good  He  did. 


RELIGION. 


361 


He  gave  away  no  money, 
For  He  had  none  to  give  ; 

But  He  had  power  of  healing, 
And  made  dead  people  live. 


He  did  kind  things  so  kindly, 
It  seemed  His  heart's  delight 

To  make  poor  people  happy 
From  morning  until  night. 


362 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


He  always  seemed  at  leisure 
For  every  one  who  came; 

However  tired  or  busy, 

They  found  Him  just  "  the  same. 

He  heard  each  tale  of  sorrow 

With  an  attentive  ear, 
And  took  away  each  burden 

Of  suffering,  sin,  or  fear. 

He  was  a  "  Man  of  Sorrows,1' 
And  when  He  gave  relief, 

He  gave  it  like  a  brother, 
Acquainted  with  the  "  grief." 

Such  was  the  man  "  Christ  Jesus," 
The  Friend  of  sinful  man !  .  .  . 

But  hush  !  the  tale  grows  sadder : 
I'll  tell  it— if  I  can. 


This  gentle,  holy  Jesus, 

Without  a  spot  or  stain, 
By  wicked  hands  was  taken, 

And  crucified,  and  slain. 

Look  !  look  !  if  you  can  bear  it — 
Look  at  your  dying  Lord ; 

Stand  near  the  cross  and  watch  Him ; 
"  Behold  the  Lamb  of  God !" 

His  hands  and  feet  are  pierced, 

He  cannot  hide  His  face ; 
And  cruel  men  "  stand  staring  " 

In  crowds  about  the  place. 

They  laugh  at  Him  and  mock  Him  ! 

They  tell  Him  to  "  come  down," 
And  leave  that  cross  of  suffering, 

And  change  it  for  a  crown. 

Why  did  He  bear  their  mockings? 

Was  He  "  the  mighty  God  "? 
And  could  He  have  destroyed  them 

With  one  almighty  word  ? 


Yes,  Jesus  could  have  done  it ; 

But  let  me  tell  you  why 
He  would  not  use  his  power, 

But  chose  to  stay  and  die. 

He  had  become  our  "  Surety  ;" 
And  what  we  could  not  pay, 

He  paid  instead,  and  for  us, 
On  that  one  dreadful  day. 

For  our  sins  He  suffered, 
For  our  sins  He  died  ; 

And  "  not  for  ours  only," 

But  "  all  the  world's  "  beside ! 


And  now  the  work  is  "finished!" 
The  sinner's  debt  is  paid, 

Because  on  "  Christ  the  righteous  " 
The  sin  of  all  was  laid. 

0  wonderful  redemption ! 

God's  remedy  for  sin, 
The  door  of  heaven  is  open, 

And  you  may  enter  in, 

For  God  released  our  "  Surety  " 
To  show  the  work  was  done, 

And  Jesus'  resurrection 
Declared  the  victory  won. 

And  now  He  has  ascended, 
And  sits  upon  the  throne, 
"To  be  a  Prince  and  Saviour," 
And  claim  us  for  His  own. 


But  when  He  left  His  people, 
He  promised  them  to  send 
"The  Comforter,"  to  teach  them 
And  guide  them  to  the  end. 

And  that  same  Holy  Spirit 
Is  with  us  to  this  day, 


RELIGION. 


363 


And  ready  now  to  teach  us 
The  "  new  and  living  Way 


This  is  the  old,  old  story  : 
Say,  do  you  take  it  in — 

This  wonderful  redemption, 
God's  remedy  for  sin  ? 

Do  you  at  heart  believe  it? 

Do  you  believe  it's  true, 
And  meant  for  every  sinner, 

And  therefore  meant  for  you  ? 

Then  take  this  "great  salvation," 
For  Jesus  loves  to  give  ; 

Believe,  and  you  receive  it, 
Believe,  and  you  shall  live ! 

And  if  this  simple  message 
Has  now  brought  peace  to  you, 

Make  known  "  the  old,  old  story," 
For  others  need  it  too. 

Let  everybody  see  it, 

That  Christ  has  made  you  free, 
And  if  it  sets  them  longing, 

Say,  "  Jesus  died  for  thee" 


Soon,  soon  our  eyes  shall  see  Him, 

And  in  our  home  above 
We'll  sing  "the  old,  old  story 

Of  Jesus  and  His  love." 

Kate  Hankey. 


I  LOVE  TO  TELL  THE  STORY. 

I  love  to  tell  the  story 
Of  unseen  things  above ; 

Of  Jesus  and  His  glory, 
Of  Jesus  and  His  love. 


I  love  to  tell  the  story, 
Because  I  know  it's  true ; 

It  satisfies  my  longings 
As  nolihing  else  would  do. 

I  love  to  tell  the  story  : 
More  wonderful  it  seems 

Than  all  the  golden  fancies 
Of  all  our  golden  dreams. 

I  love  to  tell  the  story : 
It  did  so  much  for  me ; 

And  that  is  just  the  reason 
I  tell  it  now  to  thee. 

I  love  to  tell  the  story  : 
'Tis  pleasant  to  repeat 

What  seems,  each  time  I  tell  it, 
More  wonderfully  sweet. 

I  love  to  tell  the  story : 
For  some  have  never  heard 

The  message  of  salvation 
From  God's  own  holy  Word. 

I  love  to  tell  the  story  : 

For  those  who  know  it  best 

Seem  hungering  and  thirsting 
To  hear  it,  like  the  rest. 

And  when  in  scenes  of  glory 
I  sing  the  new,  new  song, 

'Twill  be  the  old,  old  story 
That  I  have  loved  so  long ! 

Sunday  at  Home. 


THE  CHILD'S  DESIRE. 

I  think,  when  I  read  that  sweet  story 
of  old, 
When  Jesus  was  here  among -men, 
How  He  called  little  children  as  lambs 
to  His  fold. 
I  should  like  to  have  been  with  them 
then. 


364 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF    POETRY 


I  wish  that  His  hands  had  been  placed 
on  my  head, 
That   His  arms   had   been  thrown 
around  me, 
And  that  I  might  have  seen  His  kind 

look  when  He  said. 
"  Let  the  little  ones  come  unto  Me." 

But  still  to  His  footstool  in  prayer  I 
may  go, 
And  ask  for  a  share  in  His  love ; 
And  if  I  thus  earnestly  seek  Him  be- 
low, 
I  shall  see  Him  and  hear  Him  above, 

In  that  beautiful  place  He  has  gone  to 
prepare 
For   all   that  are  washed   and  for- 
given ; 
And  many  dear  children  are  gather- 
ing there, 
"  For   of  such   is   the  kingdom  of 
heaven." 

Mrs.  Luke. 

CRADLE  HYMN. 

Hush,  my  dear!     Lie  still  and  slum- 
ber!" 

Holy  angels  guard  thy  bed  ! 
Heavenly  blessings,  without  number, 

Gently  falling  on  thy  head. 

Sleep,  my  babe !   thy    food   and   rai- 
ment, 
House  and  home,  thy  friends  pro- 
vide ; 
All  without  thy  care  or  payment, 
All  thy  wants  are  well  supplied. 

How  much  better  thou'rt  attended 
Than  the  Son  of  God  could  be, 

When  from  heaven  He  descended, 
And  became  a  child  like  thee  ! 


Soft  and  easy  is  thy  cradle  : 

Coarse  and  hard  thy  Saviour  lay 

When  His  birthplace  was  a  stable 
And  His  softest  bed  was  hay. 

Blessed  Babe!  what  glorious  features ! 

Spotless  fair,  divinely  bright ! 
Must  He  dwell  with  brutal  creatures  ? 

How  could  angels  bear  the  sight  ? 

Was  there  nothing  but  a  manger 
Cursed  sinners  could  afford 

To  receive  the  heavenly  stranger? 
Did  they  thus  affront  the  Lord  ? 

Soft,  m}T  child  !     I  did  not  chide  thee, 
Though  my  song  might  sound  too 
hard  : 

'Tis  thy  mother  sits  beside  thee, 
And  her  arm  shall  be  thy  guard. 

Yet  to  read  the  shameful  story, 
How  the  Jews  abused  their  King, , 

How  they  served  the  Lord  of  glory, 
Makes  me  angry  while  I  sing. 

See  the  kinder  shepherds  round  Him. 

Telling  wonders  from  the  sky  ! 
Where  they  sought  Him,  there  they 
found  Him, 

With  His  virgin  mother  by. 

See  the  lovely  Babe  a-dressing  ; 

Lovely  Infant,  how  He  smiled  ! 
When  He  wept  His  mother's  blessing 

Soothed  and  hushed  the  holy  Child. 

Lo,  He  slumbers  in  a  manger, 
Where  the  horned  oxen  fed  : — 

Peace,  my  darling,  here's  no  danger  ■ 
There's  no  ox  anear  thy  bed. 

'Twas  to  save  thee,  child,  from  dying, 
Save  my  dear  from  burning  flame, 


RELIGION. 


365 


Bitter  groans  and  endless  crying, 
That  thv  blest  Redeemer  came. 


Then  go  dwell  for  eyer  near  Him  : 
See  His  face,  and  sing  His  praise ! 


I  I  could  giye  thee  thousand  kisses  ! 
May'st  thou  live  to    know   and   fear        Hoping  what  I  most  desire ; 
Him,  '  Not  a  mother's  fondest  wishes 

Trust  and  love  Him  all  thy  days,  Can  to  greater  joys  aspire ! 


Isaac  Watts. 


"SUFFER  THE  LITTLE  ONES  TO  COME  UNTO  ME." 
"  The  Master  has  come  oyer  Jordan,"  j  "  Now  who  hut  a  doting  mother 


Said  Hannah  the  mother  one  day ; 
"  He  is  healing  the  people  who  throng 
Him, 
With  a  touch   of  His  finger,  they 
say. 

"And  now  I  shall  carry  the  children, 
Little  Rachel  and  Samuel  and  John, 

I  shall  carry  the  baby,  Esther, 
For  the  Lord  to  look  upon." 

The  father  looked  at  her  kindly, 
But  he  shook  his  head  and  smiled  : 


Would  think  of  a  thing  so  wild  ? 

"  If    the   children    were   tortured   by 
demons. 

Or  dying  of  fever,  'twere  well ; 
Or  had  they  the  taint  of  the  leper, 

Like  many  in  Israel." 

"  Nay.  do  not  hinder  me.  Nathan; 

I  feel  such  a  burden  of  care, 
If  I  carry  it  to  the  Master, 

Perhaps  I  shall  leave  it  there. 


366 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


"  If  He  lay  His  hand  on  the  children 
My  heart  will  be  lighter,  I  know, 

For  a  blessing  for  ever  and  ever 
Will  follow  them  as  they  go." 

So  over  the  hills  of  Judah, 
Along  by  the  vine-rows  green, 

With  Esther  asleep  on  her  bosom, 
And  Rachel  her  brothers  between ; 

'Mid  the   people  who  hung   on   His 
teaching, 
Or    waited    His    touch    and    His 
word, — 
Through  the  row  of  proud  Pharisees 
listening, 
She  pressed  to  the  feet  of  the  Lord. 

"  Now  why  shouldst  thou  hinder  the 
Master," 
Said    Peter,    "  wTith    children    like 
these  ? 
Seest  not  how  from  morning  to  evening 
He  teacheth  and  healeth  disease  ?" 

Then   Christ  said,   "  Forbid   not  the 
children  ; 

Permit  them  to  come  unto  me !" 
And  He  took  in  His  arms  little  Esther, 

And  Rachel  He  set  on  His  knee ; 

And  the  heavy  heart  of  the  mother 
Was  lifted  all  earth-care  above, 

As  He  laid  His  hand  on  the  brothers, 
And  blest  them  with  tenderest  love  ; 

As  He  said  of  the  babes  in  His  bosom, 
"Of  such  is   the  kingdom  of  hea- 
ven,"— 

And  strength  for  all  duty  and  trial 
That  hour  to  her  spirit  was  given. 

Julia  Gill. 


THE  GOOD  SHEPHERD. 

Jesus  says  that  we  must  love  Him  ; 

Helpless  as  the  lambs  are  we, 
But  He  very  kindly  tells  us 

That  our  Shepherd  He  will  be. 

Heavenly  Shepherd  !  please  to  watch 
us, 

Guard  us  both  by  night  and  day  ; 
Pity  show  to  little  children, 

Who,  like  lambs,  too  often  stray. 

We  are  always  prone  to  wander : 
Please  to  keep  us  from  each  snare ; 

Teach  our  infant  hearts  to  praise  Thee 
For  Thy  kindness  and  Thy  care. 


THE  NEAREST  FRIEND. 

Dear  Jesus  !  ever  at  my  side, 
How  loving  must  Thou  be, 

To  leave  Thy  home  in  heaven  to  guard 
A  little  child  like  me  ! 

Thy  beautiful  and  shining  face 

I  see  not,  though  so  near; 
The  sweetness  of  Thy  soft,  low  voice 

I  am  too  deaf  to  hear. 

I  cannot  feel  Thee  touch  my  hand 
With  pressure  light  and  mild, 

To  check  me,  as  my  mother  did 
When  I  was  but  a  child  ; 

But  I  have  felt  Thee  in  my  thoughts. 

Fighting  with  sin  for  me ; 
And    when   my   heart   loves   God,    I 
know 

The  sweetness  is  from  Thee. 

Yes !  when  I  pray,  Thou  prayest  too ; 

Thy  prayer  is  all  for  me  ; 
But  when  I  sleep,  Thou  sleepest  not, 

But  watch  est  patiently. 

Frederick  W.  Faber. 


RELIGION. 


367 


JESUS  SEES  YOU. 

Little  child,  when  you're  at  play 
Do  you  know  that  Jesus  sees  you  ? 

He  it  is  who  made  the  day, 
Sunshine,  birds,  and  flowers,  to  please 
you. 

Oh  then  thank  Him  much,  and  pray 

To  be  grateful  every  day. 

Little  child,  when  you're  afraid, 
Do  you  know  that  Christ  is  by  you? 


Seek  His  care  then  !     He  has  said, 
"Ask,  and  I  will  not  deny  you." 
And  He  never  fails  to  hear ; 
He  will  keep  3^011 — do  not  fear. 

Little  child,  when  you  are  bad, 

Do  you  think  that  Jesus  knows  it? 

Yes  !  and  oh,  it  makes  Him  glad 
When  you're  sorry  and  disclose  it. 

Oh,  then,  tell  Him  quick,  and  pray 

To  grow  better  every  day. 


PRAYER  FOR  A  LITTLE  CHILD. 

Gentle  Jesus,  meek  and  mild, 
Look  upon  a  little  child  ; 
Pity  my  simplicity, 
Suffer  me  to  come  to  Thee. 

Fain  I  would  to  Thee  be  brought ; 
Gracious  God,  forbid  it  not : 
In  the  kingdom  of  Thy  grace 
Give  a  little  child  a  place. 


Oh  supply  my  every  want, 
Feed  the  young  and  tender  plant ; 
Day  and  night  my  keeper  be, 
Every  moment  watch  o'er  me. 


HYMN  OF  A  CHILD. 

Loving  Jesus,  meek  and  mild, 
Look  upon  a  little  child. ! 


568 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


Make  me  gentle  as  Thou  art, 
Come  and  live  within  my  heart.- 

Take  my  childish  hand  in  Thine, 
Guide  these  little  feet  of  mine. 

So  shall  all  my  happy  days 

Sing  their  pleasant  song  of  praise ; 

And  the  world  shall  always  see 
Christ,  the  holy  Child,  in  me ! 

Charles  Wesley. 

EVENING  PRAYER  FOR  A  YOUNG  CHILD. 
Now  I  lay  me  down  to  sleep ; 
I  pray  the  Lord  my  soul  to  keep ; 
If  I  should  die  before  I  wake, 
I  pray  the  Lord  my  soul  to  take ; 
And  this  I  beg  for  Jesus'  sake. 


A  CHILD'S  PRAYER. 
The  day  is  gone,  the  night  is  come, 

The  night  for  quiet  rest, 
And  every  little  bird  has  flown 

Home  to  its  downy  nest. 

The  robin  was  the  last  to  go ; 

Upon  the  leafless  bough 
He  sang  his  evening  hymn  to  God, 

And  he  is  silent  now. 

The  bee  is  hushed  within  the  hive; 

Shut  is  the  daisy's  eye  ; 
The  stars  alone  are  peeping  forth 

From  out  the  darkened  sky. 

No,  not  the  stars  alone  ;  for  God 
Has  heard  what  I  have  said  ; 

His  eye  looks  on  His  little  child, 
Kneeling  beside  its  bed. 

He  kindly  hears  me  thank  Him  now 
For  all  that  He  has  given — 

For  friends,  and  books,  and  clothes, 
and  food ; 
But  most  of  all  for.  heaven — 


Where  I  shall  go  when  I  am  dead, 

If  truly  I  do  right ; 
Where  I  shall  meet  all  those  I  love 

As  angels  pure  and  bright. 

Household  Words. 

JESUS,  SEE  A  LITTLE  CHILD. 

Jesus,  see  a  little  child, 

Kneeling  at  its  mother's  knee ; 
Meekly  pleading  at  Thy  feet, 

Lifting  up  its  hands  to  Thee. 
Saviour,  guide  my  little  steps, 

Never  let  them  halt  or  stray  ; 
Wash  me  with  Thy  precious  blood  ; 

Jesus,  take  my  sins  away  ! 

Make  me  gentle,  make  me  good. 

Let  no  evil  fill  my  breast ; 
Never  leave  me  night  or  day, 

Watch  me  when  I  play  or  rest. 
Jesus,  Saviour  of  the  world, 

Look  with  pity  down  on  me  ; 
Though  I'm  but  a  little  child, 

Teach  me  how  to  pray  to  Thee  ! 

Matthias  Barr. 

EVENING  HYMN. 
Jesus,  tender  Shepherd,  hear  me ; 
Bless  Thy  little  lamb  to-night : 
Through  the  darkness  be  Thou  near 
me, 
Watch  my  sleep  till  morning  light. 

All  this  day  Thy  hand  has  led  me, 
And  I  thank  Thee  for  Thy  care ; 

Thou  hast  clothed  me,  warmed,  and 
fed  me ; 
Listen  to  my  evening  prayer. 

Let  my  sins  be  all  forgiven, 

Bless  the  friends  I  love  so  well ; 

Take  me  when  I  die  to  heaven, 
Happy  there  with  Thee  to  dwell. 

Mary  Lundie  Duncan. 


RELIGION. 


569 


MORNING  HYMN. 


The  morning  bright 

With  ros}T  light 
Has  waked  me  from  my  sleep. 

Father,  I  own 

Thy  love  alone 
Thy  little  one  doth  keep. 

24 


All  through  the  day, 

I  humbly  pray, 
Be  Thou  my  guard  and  guide. 

My  sins  forgive, 

And  let  me  live, 
Blest  Jesus,  near  Thy  side. 


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THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


Oh,  make  Thy  rest 
Within  my  breast, 

Great  Spirit  of  all  grace ; 
Make  me  like  Thee 
Then  I  shall  he 

Prepared  to  see  Thy  face. 


A  CHILD'S  EVENING  PRAYER. 

The  following  simple  and  beautiful  lines  were  com- 
posed by  the  great  poet  named  below  for  the  use  of  his 
little  girl. 

Ere  on  my  bed  my  limbs  I  lay, 
God  grant  me  grace  my  prayers  to  say. 
0  God,  preserve  my  mother  dear 
In  strength   and  health   for   many  a 

year ; 
And,  oh  !  preserve  my  father  too, 
And  may  I  pay  him  reverence  due — 
And  may  I  my  best  thoughts  employ 
To  be  my  parents'  hope  and  joy. 


And  oh  I  preserve  my  brothers  both 
From  evil  doings  and  from  sloth  ; 
And  may  we  always  love  each  other, 
Our  friends,  our  father,  and  our  mo- 
ther. 
And  still,  O  Lord,  to  me  impart 
An  innocent  and  grateful  heart, 
That  after  my  last  sleep  I  may 
Awake  to  Thy  eternal  day  !     Amen. 

Samuel  Taylor  Coleiud<je. 


THE  UNFINISHED  PRAYER. 

"  Now  I  lay  " — repeat  it,  darling — 
"  Lay  me,"  lisped  the  tiny  lips 

Of  my  daughter,  kneeling,  bending 
O'er  her  folded  finger-tips. 

"Down  to  sleep :"  "To  sleep,"  she  mur- 
mured, 

And  the  curly  head  bent  low  ; 
"  I  pray  the  Lord,"  I  gently  added ; 

"You  can  say  it  all,  I  know." 

"  Pray  the   Lord  " — the   sound   came 
faintly, 

Fainter  still,  "  ]\ly  soul  to  keep  ;" 
Then  the  tired  head  fairly  nodded, 

And  the  child  was  fast  asleep. 

But  the  dewy  eyes  half  opened 
When  I  clasped  her  to  my  breast, 

And  the  dear  voice  softly  whispered, 
"  Mamma,  God  knows  all  the  rest." 


GOOD-NIGHT. 

The  sun  is  hidden  from  our  sight, 
The  birds  are  sleeping  sound ; 

'Tis  time  to  say  to  all,  "  Good-night," 
And  give  a  kiss  all  round. 

Good-night,  my  father,  mother  dear; 
Now  kiss  your  little  son ; 


RELIGION. 


371 


Good-night,  my  friends,  both  far  and 
near, 
Good-night  to  every  one. 

Good-night,  ye  merry,  merry  birds ! 

Sleep  well  till  morning  light ; 
Perhaps  if  you  could  sing  in  words 

You  would  have  said  "  Good-night." 

To  all  my  pretty  flowers  good-night ; 

You  blossom  while  I  sleep ; 
And  all  the  stars,  that  shine  so  bright, 

With  you  their  watches  keep. 

The  moon  is  lighting  up  the  skies, 
The  stars  are  sparkling  there ; 

'Tis  time  to  shut  our  weary  eyes, 
And  say  our  evening  prayer. 

Eliza  Follen. 


GOOD-NIGHT. 

"Good-night,  dear  mamma,"  a  little 

girl  said, 
"  I'm  going  to  sleep  in  my  trundle- 
bed  ; 
Good-night,  dear  papa,  little  brother 

and  sis !" 
And  to  each  one  the  innocent  gave  a 

sweet  kiss. 
"  Good-night,  little  darling,"  her  fond 

mother  said ; 
"  But  remember,  before  you  lie  down 

in  your  bed, 
With  a  heart  full  of  love,  and  a  tone 

soft  and  mild, 
To  breathe  a  short  prayer  to  Heaven, 

dear  child." 
"  Oh  yes,  dear  mother!"  said  the  child, 

with  a  nod, 
"  I  love,  oh  I  love  to  say  good-night 

to  God !" 


Kneeling  down,  "  My  Father  in  heav- 
en," she  said, 
"  I  thank  Thee  for  giving  me  this  nice 

little  bed ; 
For  though  mamma  told  me  she  bought 

it  for  me, 
She  says  that  everything  good  comes 

from  Thee ; 
I   thank    Thee   for   keeping   me   safe 

through  the  day  ; 
I   thank   Thee  for  teaching   me,  too, 

how  to  pray ;" 
Then  bending  her  sweet  little  head 

with  a  nod, 
"  Good-night,    my    dear    Father,    my 

Maker,  and  God; 
Should  I  never  again  on  earth  open 

mine  eyes, 
I  pray  Thee  to  give  me  a  home  in  the 

skies !" 


'Twas  an  exquisite  sight  as  she  meekly 

knelt  there, 
With  her  eyes  raised  to  heaven,  her 

hands  clasped  in  prayer ; 
And  I  thought  of  the  time  when  the 

Saviour,  in  love, 
Said,  "  Of   such    is  the   kingdom  of 

heaven  above ;" 
And  I  inwardly  prayed  that  my  own 

heart  the  while 
Might  be  cleansed  of    its   bitterness, 

freed  from  its  guile. 
Then  she  crept  into  bed,  that  beauti- 
ful child, 
And  was  soon  lost  in  slumber,  so  calm 

and  so  mild 
That  we  listened  in  vain  for  the  sound 

of  her  breath 
As  she  lay  in  the  arms  of  the  emblem 

of  death. 


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THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


GOOD-NIGHT. 
Good-night,  my  dear    mother — dear 

mother,  good-night; 
You  may  take  out  the  lamp,  and  shut 

the  door  tight : 
Your   dear  little   Ellen   will    not   be 

afraid, 
Though  left  quite  alone  in  her  own 

quiet  bed. 

I 
Afraid,  my  dear  mother  ?  afraid  when 

I  know 
God  watches  on  high,  while  you  watch 

below  ? 
And   though  the  thick   darkness   all 

round  me  is  spread, 
I  know  that  from  Him  I  can  never  be 

hid. 

You  say,  my  dear  mother,  whenever 

I  pray, 
Although  He's  in  heaven,  He'll  hear 

what  I  say ; 


"  'Tis  morning,  bright  morning ;  good- 
morning,  papa; 

Oh,  give  me  one  kiss  for  good-morn- 
ing, mamma ; 

Only  just  look  at  my  pretty  canary, 

Chirping  his  sweet  good-morning  to 
Mary  ! 

The  sun  is  just  peeping  straight  into 
my  eyes — 

Good-morning  to  you,  Mister  Sun,  for 
you  rise 

Early  to  wake  up  my  birdie  and  me, 

And  make  us  as  happy  as  happy  can. 
be." 

"  Happy  you  may  be,  my  dear  little 
girl ;" 

And  the  mother  stroked  softly  a  clus- 
tering curl ; 

"  Happy  you  can  be,  but  think  of  the 
One 

Who  wakened,  this  morning,  both  you 
and  the  sun." 


And  so,  if  I  should  have  some  foolish    The  little  Sirl  turned  her  bright  eyes 


fears  rise, 
I'll  pray  in  my  heart  when  I  shut  up 
my  eyes. 

Good-night,  my  dear  mother — dear 
mother,  good-night; 

Please  take  out  the  candle,  and  shut 
the  door  tight : 

Your  dear  little  daughter  will  not  be 
afraid 

When  left  quite  alone  in  her  own  lit- 
tle bed. 


GOOD-MORNING  TO  GOD. 

"  Oh,  I  am  so  happy !"  a  little  girl 

said, 
As  she  sprang  like  a  lark  from  her  low 

trundle-bed : 


with  a  nod, 
"  Mamma,  may  I  say  '  Good-morning ' 

to  God?" 
"  Yes,  little  darling  one,  surely  you 

may; 
Kneel  as  you  kneel  every  morning  to 

pray." 
Mary  knelt  solemnly  down,  with  her 

eyes 
Looking  up  earnestly  into  the  skies ; 

And  two  little  hands,  that  were  folded 
together, 

Softly  she  laid  in  the  lap  of  her 
mother : 

"  Good-morning,  dear  Father  in  heav- 
en," she  said, 

"  I  thank  Thee  for  watching  my  snug 
little  bed ; 


RELIGION. 


373 


For  taking  good  care  of  me  all  the 
dark  night, 

And  waking  me  up  with  the  beautiful 
light. 

Oh  keep  me  from  naughtiness  all  the 
long  day, 

Dear  Saviour,  who  taught  little  chil- 
dren to  pray." 

An  angel  looked  down  in  the  sunshine 
and  smiled, 

But  she  saw  not  the  angel,  that  beau- 
tiful child. 

Mary  T.  Hamlin. 


HYMN. 

I  want  to  be  like  Jesus, 

So  lowly  and  so  meek ; 
For  no  one  marked  an  angry  word 

That  ever  heard  Him  speak. 

I  want  to  be  like  Jesus, 

So  frequently  in  prayer  ; 
Alone  upon  the  mountain-top, 

He  met  His  Father  there. 

I  want  to  be  like  Jesus, 

For  I  never,  never  find 
That  He,  though  persecuted,  was 

To  any  one  unkind. 

I  want  to  be  like  Jesus, 

Engaged  in  doing  good, 
So  that  it  may  of  me  be  said, 

"  She  hath  done  what  she  could." 

Alas  !  I'm  not  like  Jesus, 

As  any  one  may  see  ; 
0  gentle  Saviour,  send  Thy  grace 

And  make  me  like  to  Thee ! 


PRAISE  FOR  MERCIES. 

Lord,  I  would  own  Thy  tender  care, 

And  all  Thy  love  to  me ; 
The  food  I  eat,  the  clothes  I  wear, 

Are  all  bestowed  by  Thee. 

And  Thou  preservest  me  from  death 

And  dangers  every  hour ; 
I  cannot  draw  another  breath 

Unless  Thou  give  me  power. 

My  health,  my  friends,  and  parents 
dear 

To  me  by  God  are  given ; 
I  have  not  any  blessings  here 

But  what  are  sent  from  heaven. 

Such   goodness,    Lord,   and   constant 
care, 

A  child  can  ne'er  repay ; 
But  may  it  be  my  daily  prayer 

To  love  Thee  and  obey  ! 


CONVALESCENT. 

I  prayed  to  God ;  He  heard  my  prayer, 
And  made  a  little  child  His  care : 
When  I  was  sick  He  healed  my  pain, 
And  gave  me    health   and  strength 

again. 
Oh,  let  me  now  His  grace  implore, 
And  love  and  praise  Him  evermore. 


CHILDREN'S  PRAISES. 

Around  the  throne  of  God  in  heaven 
Thousands  of  children  stand — 

Children  whose  sins  are  all  forgiven, 
A  holy,  happy  band, 

Singing,  Glory,  glory. 

In  flowing  robes  of  spotless  white, 
See  every  one  arrayed, 


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THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


Dwelling  in  everlasting  light 
And  joys  that  never  fade, 
Singing,  Glory,  glory. 

Once  they  were  little  things  like  you, 

And  lived  on  earth  below, 
And  could  not  praise,  as  now  they  do, 

The  Lord  who  loved  them  so, 
Singing,  Glory,  glory. 

What  brought   them    to   that   world 
above, 
That  heaven  so  bright  and  fair, 
Where  all  is  peace  and  joy  and  love  ? 
How  came  those  children  there, 
Singing,  Glory,  glory  ? 

Because  the  Saviour  shed  His  blood 

To  wash  away  their  sin : 
Bathed    in  that  pure   and   precious 
flood, 
Behold  them  white  and  clean, 
Singing,  Glory,  glory. 

On  earth  they  sought   the   Saviour's 
grace, 
On  earth  they  loved  His  name  ; 
So  now  they  see  His  blessed  face, 
And  stand  before  the  Lamb, 
Singing,  Glory,  glory. 

I  WANT  TO  BE  AN  ANGEL. 

I  want  to  be  an  angel, 

And  with  the  angels  stand, 
A  crown  upon  my  forehead, 

A  harp  within  my  hand  ; 
There,  right  before  my  Saviour, 

So  glorious  and  so  bright, 
I'd  wake  the  sweetest  music, 

And  praise  Him  day  and  night. 

I  never  should  be  weary, 

Nor  ever  shed  a  tear, 
Nor  ever  know  a  sorrow, 

Nor  ever  feel  a  fear  ; 


But  blessed,  pure,  and  holy, 
I'd  dwell  in  Jesus'  sight, 

And  with  ten  thousand  thousands 
Praise  Him  both  day  and  night. 

I  know  I'm  weak  and  sinful, 

But  Jesus  will  forgive  ; 
For  many  little  children 

Have  gone  to  heaven  to  live. 
Dear  Saviour,  when  I  languish 

And  lay  me  clown  to  die, 
Oh.  send  a  shining  angel 

To  bear  me  to  the  sky  ! 

Oh,  then  I'll  be  an  angel, 

And  with  the  angels  stand, 
A  crown  upon  my  forehead, 

A  harp  within  my  hand  ; 
And  there  before  my  Saviour, 

So  glorious  and  so  bright, 
I'll  join  the  heavenly  chorus, 

And  praise  Him  clay  and  nigbA 

Sidney  Paul  Gill. 

THE  TEN  COMMANDMENTS. 

EXOD.  CHAP.  XX. 

1.  Thou  shalt  have  no  more  gods  but 

me ; 

2.  Before  no  idol  bow  thy  knee. 

3.  Take   not   the   name   of   God   in 

vain, 

4.  Nor   dare   the    Sabbath-day   pro- 

fane. 

5.  Give  both  thy  parents  honor  due : 

6.  Take  heed  that  thou  no  murder 

do. 

7.  Abstain  from  words  and  deeds  un- 

clean, 

8.  Nor  steal,  though  thou  art  poor 

and  mean, 

9.  Nor  make  a  wilful  lie,  nor  love  it. 
10.  What  is  thy   neighbor's,  do  not 

covet. 


RELIGION. 


375 


THERE  IS  A 

There  is  a  happy  land. 

Far,  far  away. 
Where,  saints  in  glory  stand, 

Bright,  bright  as  day. 
Oh,  how  they  sweetly  sing, 
Worthy  is  our  Saviour  King ! 
Loud  let  His  praises  ring — 

Praise,  praise  for  aye ! 

Come  to  this  happy  land — 

Come,  come  away ; 
Why  will  ye  doubting  stand, 

Why  still  delay  ? 


HAPPY  LAND. 

Oh,  we  shall  happy  be 
When,  from  sin  and  sorrow  free, 
Lord,  we  shall  live  with  Thee — 
Blest,  blest  for  aye. 

Bright  in  that  happy  land 

Beams  every  eye : 
Kept  by  a  Fathers  hand, 

Love  cannot  die. 
On,  then,  to  glory  run  ; 
Be  a  crown  and  kingdom  won  ; 
And,  bright  above  the  sun, 

Reign,  reign  for  aye. 

Andrew  Young. 


THE  BETTER  LAND. 
"  I  hear  thee  speak  of  the  better  land: 
Thou  calFst  its  children  a  happy  band ; 
Mother!    oh,    where   is   that   radiant 

shore  ? 
Shall  we  not  seek   it,  and  weep  no 

more  ? 
Is  it  where  the  flower  of  the  orange 

blows, 
And  the  fireflies  glance  through  the 

myrtle  boughs?" 
"  Not  there,  not  there,  my  child !" 


"  Is  itwhere  the  feathery  palm  trees  rise, 

And  the  date  grows  ripe  under  sunny 
skies ; 

Or  'midst  the  green  islands  of  glitter- 
ing seas, 

Where   fragrant  forests  perfume   the 
breeze, 

And    strange    bright   birds   on   their 
starry  wings 

Bear   the   rich    hues   of    all   glorious 
things  ?" 
"  Not  there,  not  there,  my  child !" 


THE    CHILDREN'S  BOOK    OF  POETRY. 


"  Is  it  far  away,  in  some  region  old, 
Where  the  rivers  wander  o'er  sands  of 

gold— 
Where  the  burning  rays  of  the  ruby 

shine, 
And  the  diamond  lights  up  the  secret 

mine, 
And  the  pearl  gleams  forth  from  the 

coral  strand — 
Is  it  there,  sweet  mother,  that  better 

land?" 
"  Not  there,  not  there,  my  child ! 

"  Eye   hath   not    seen   it,   my   gentle 

boy, 
Ear  hath  not  heard  its  deep  songs  of 

j°y; 

Dreams   cannot   picture   a   world    so 

fair — 
Sorrow    and    death    may    not    enter 

there; 
Time  doth  not  breathe  on  its  fadeless 

bloom, 
For  beyond  the  clouds  and  beyond 

the  tomb, 
It  is  there,  it  is  there,  my  child !" 

Mrs.  Hemans. 


THE  GERMAN  WATCHMAN'S  SONG. 

Among  the  night-watchmen  of  Germany  a  singular 
custom  prevails  of  chanting  devotional  hymns,  as  well 
as  songs  of  a  national,  ar.d  sometimes  of  an  amusing, 
character  during  the  night.  Here  is  one  of  the  more 
serious  cast,  the  verses  of  which  are  chanted  as  the 
hours  of  the  night  are  successively  announced  by  the 
watchman  in  his  rounds: 

Hark  !   ye   neighbors,   and   hear  me 

tell  : 
Eight  now  sounds  on  the  belfry-bell  ! 
Eight   souls   alone  from    death  were 

kept 
When  God  the  earth  with  the  Deluge 

swept. 


CHORUS. 

Human  watch  from  harm  can't  ward 

us  : 
God  will  watch  and  God  will  guard 

us; 
He,  through  His  eternal  might, 
Grant  us  all  a  blessed  night ! 

Hark !  ye  neighbors,  and  hear  me  tell : 
Nine  now  sounds  on  the  belfry-bell ! 
Nine  lepers  cleansed  returned  not ; 
Be  not  thy  blessings,  0  man,  forgot ! 

Cho. — Human,  etc. 

Hark !  ye  neighbors,  and  hear  me  tell : 
Ten  now  sounds  on  the  belfry-bell ! 
Ten  are  the  holy  commandments  given 
To  man  below  from  God  in  heaven. 

Cho. — Human,  etc. 

Hark!  ye  neighbors,  and  hear  me  tell: 
Eleven  now  sounds  on  the  belfry -bell ! 
Eleven  apostles,  of  holy  mind, 
Proclaimed  the  gospel  to  mankind. 

Cho. — Human,  etc. 

Hark!  ye  neighbors,  and  hear  me  tell: 
Twelve   now   sounds    on   the    belfry- 
bell! 
Twelve  disciples  to  Jesus  came, 
Who   suffered    reproach   for  the   Sa- 
viour's name. 

Cho. — Human,  etc. 

Hark !  ye  neighbors,  and  hear  me  tell : 
One  now  sounds  on  the  belfry-bell ! 
One  God  above ;  one  Lord,  indeed, 
Who   ever   protects   in  the   hour   of 
need. 

Cno. — Human,  etc. 


RELIGION. 


377 


Hark!  ye  neighbors,  and  hear  me  tell: 
Two  now  sounds  on  the  belfry-bell ! 
Two  paths  before  mankind  are  free: 
Be  sure  and  choose  the  best  for  thee. 

Cho. — Human,  etc. 

Hark!  ye  neighbors,  and  hear  me  tell: 
Three  now  sounds  on  the  belfry-bell: 
Threefold  reigns  the  heavenly  Host, 
Father,  Sonj  and  Holy  Ghost. 

Cho. — Human,  etc. 

Hark!  ye  neighbors,  and  hear  me  tell: 
Four  now  sounds  on  the  belfry-bell ! 
Four  seasons  crown  the  farmer's  care: 
Thy  heart  with  equal  toil  prepare. 

CHORUS. 

Up  now !  awake !  nor  slumber  on  ; 
The  morn  approaches — night  is  gone. 
Thank   God,  who   by   His   love   and 

might 
Has  watched  and  kept  us  through  the 

night. 
Rouse  to  the  duties  of  the  day, 
And  serve  Him  faithfully  alway. 

THE  OPEN  DOOR. 

Within  a  town  of  Holland  once 

A  widow  dwelt,  'tis  said, 
So  poor,  alas !  her  children  asked 

One  night  in  vain  for  bread. 
But  this  poor  woman  loved  the  Lord, 

And  knew  that  He  was  good ; 
So,  with  her  little  ones  around. 

She  prayed  to  Him  for  food. 

When   prayer   was   done,   her   eldest 
child, 

A  boy  of  eight  years  old. 
Said  softly,  "  In  the  Holy  Book, 

Dear  mother,  we  are  told 


How     God,    with     food     by    ravens 
brought, 
Supplied  His  prophet's  need." 
"  Yes,"  answered  she  ;  "  but  that,  my 
son, 
Was  long  ago  indeed." 

"  But,  mother,  God  may  do  again 

What  He  has  done  before ; 
And  so,  to  let  the  birds  fly  in, 

I  will  unclose  the  door." 
Then  little  Dirk,  in  simple  faith, 

Threw  ope  the  door  full  wide, 
So  that  the  radiance  of  the  lamp 

Fell  on  the  path  outside. 

Ere  long  the  burgomaster  passed, 

And,  noticing  the  light, 
Paused  to  inquire  why  the  door 

Was  open  so  at  night. 
"  My  little  Dirk  has  done  it,  sir,"' 

The  widow,  smiling,  said, 
';  That  ravens  might  fly  in  to  bring 

My  hungry  children  bread." 

"  Indeed !"  the  burgomaster  cried  : 

"  Then  here's  a  raven,  lad ; 
Come  to  my  home,  and  you  shall  see 

Where  bread  may  soon  be  had." 
Along  the  street  to  his  own  house 

He  quickly  led  the  boy, 
And   sent  him   back  with  food  that 
filled 

His  humble  home  with  joy. 

The  supper  ended,  little  Dirk 

Went  to  the  open  door, 
Looked  up,  said,  "  Many  thanks,  good 
Lord  !" 

Then  shut  it  fast  once  more. 
For,  though  no  bird  had  entered  in. 

He  knew  that  God  on  high 
Had  hearkened  to  his  mother's  prayer. 

And  sent  this  full  supply. 


378 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF    POETRY 


LITTLE  SAMUEL. 
When  little  Samuel  woke, 

And  heard  his  Maker's  voice, 
At  every  word  He  spoke, 

How  much  did  he  rejoice  ! 
O  blessed,  happy  child,  to  find 
The  God  of  heaven  so  near  and  kind  ! 

If  God  would  speak  to  me, 
And  say  He  was  my  friend, 


How  happy  I  should  be ! 

Oh  how  should  I  attend  ! 
The  smallest  sin  I  then  should  fear, 
If  God  Almighty  were  so  near. 

And  does  He  never  speak? 

Oh  yes  ;  for  in  His  word 
He  bids  me  come  and  seek 

The  God  that  Samuel  heard. 
In  almost  every  page  I  see 
The  God  of  Samuel  calls  to  me. 


RELIGION. 


379 


SUNDAY. 

God  on  high  to  man  did  speak  : 

Seven  days  are  in  the  week — 

Six  of  these  to  you  I  give ; 

Ye  must  work  that  ye  may  live — 

But  the  seventh  day  shall  be 

Always  set  apart  for  Me, 

That  My  servants  may  have  rest 

And  may  learn  of  My  behest, 

That  the  voice  of  praise  and  prayer 

May  be  lifted  ev'rywhere. 

Think,  dear  child,  what  God  doth  say 

Of  His  holy  Sabbath  Day. 


A  GOOD  SABBATH. 

A  Sabbath  well  spent 

Brings  a  week  of  content, 
And  strength  for  the  toils  of  to-mor- 
row ; 

But  a  Sabbath  profaned, 

Whatever  is  gained, 
Is  a  certain  forerunner  of  sorrow. 


I  WILL  NOT  BE  AFRAID. 

God  can  see  us  everywhere 
In  the  very  darkest  night ; 

So  I  will  not  be  afraid, 

Even  though  I  have  no  light. 


When  alone  awake  I  lie, 

Then  my  pretty  hymn  I'll  say; 
God  can  hear  the  smallest  voice, 

And  He  listens  night  and  day. 

Well  He  loves  each  little  child 
With  a  Father's  tender  love ; 

All  the  time  we  sleep  or  play, 
He  is  watching  from  above. 


So  I  will  not  be  afraid, 

Even  though  I  have  no  light; 

God  can  see  us  everywhere. 
In  the  very  darkest  night. 

FAITH  IN  GOD. 

I  knew  a  widow  very  poor, 
Who  four  small  children  had  : 

The  oldest  was  but  six  years  old, 
A  gentle,  modest  lad. 

And  very  hard  this  widow  toiled 
To  feed  her  children  four  ; 

A  noble  heart  the  mother  had, 
Though  she  was  very  poor. 

To  labor  she  would  leave  her  home, 

For  children  must  be  fed ; 
And  glad  was  she  when  she  could  buy 

A  shilling's  worth  of  bread. 

And  this  was  all  the  children  had 

On  any  day  to  eat : 
They  drank  their  water,  ate  their  bread, 

But  never  tasted  meat. 

One  day,  when  snow  was  falling  fast 

And  piercing  was  the  air, 
I  thought  that  I  would  go  and  see 

How  these  poor  children  were. 

Ere    long   I   reached   their   cheerless 
home, 

'Twas  searched  by  every  breeze — 
When,  going  in,  the'  eldest  child 

I  saw  upon  his  knees. 

I  paused  to  listen  to  the  boy  ; 

He  never  raised  his  head, 
But  still  went   on,  and   said,  "  Give 
us 

This  day  our  daily  bread." 


380 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


I  waited  till  the  child  was  done, 
Still  listening  as  he  prayed  ; 

And  when  he  rose  I  asked  him  why 
That  prayer  he  then  had  said. 

''  Why,  sir,"  said  he,  "  this  morning, 
when 

My  mother  went  away, 
She  wept  because  she  said  she  had 

No  bread  for  us  to-day. 


"  She    said    we    children    now   must 
starve, 

Oar  father  being  dead  ; 
And  then  I  told  her  not  to  cry, 

For  I  could  get  some  bread. 


"  '  Our  Father,'  sir,  the  prayer  begins, 
Which  made  me  think  that  He, 

As  we  have  no  kind  father  here, 
Would  our  kind  Father  be. 


"  And  then  you  know,  sir,  that  the 
prayer 

Asks  God  for  bread  each  day  ; 
So  in  the  corner,  sir,  I  went ; 

And  that's  wdiat  made  me  pray." 

I  quickly  left  that  wretched  room, 
And  went  with  fleeting  feet, 

And  very  soon  was  back  again 
With  food  enough  to  eat. 


"  I  thought  God  heard  me,"  said  the 
boy. 
I  answered  with  a  nod  ; 
I    could    not     speak,    but    much    I 
thought 
Of  that  boy's  faith  in  God.- 

Kev.  Dr.  Hawks. 


LITTLE  HARRY'S  LETTER. 

A  postman  stood  with  puzzled  brow 
And  in  his  hands  turned  o'er  and 
o'er 
A  letter  with  address  so  strange 
As  he  had  never  seen  before. 
The    writing     cramped,    the     letters 
small, 
And   by   a   boy's   rough   hand  en- 
graven. 
The    words     ran    thus :     "  To    Jesus 
Christ," 
And     underneath     inscribed,    "  In 
Heaven." 


The   postman   paused ;    full   well   he 
knew 
No  mail  on  earth  this  note  could 
take ; 
And  yet  'twas  writ  in  childish  faith. 
And    posted    for  the    dear   Lord's 
sake. 
With  careful  hand  he  broke  the  seal, 

And  rev'rently  the  letter  read  ; 
'Twras  short,  and  very  simple  too, 
For  this  was  all  the  writer  said  : 

"  My  Lord  and  Saviour,  Jesus  Christ, 

I've  lately  lost  my  father  dear ; 
Mother  is  very,  very  poor, 

And  life  to  her  is  sad  and  drear. 
Yet  Thou  hast  promised  in  Thy  Word 

That  none  can  ever  ask  in  vain 
For  wha{;  they  need  of  earthly  store, 

If  only  asked  in  Jesus'  name. 

"  And  so  I  write  you  in  His  name, 
To  ask  that  you  will  kindly  send 

Some  money  down ;    what   you   can 
spare, 
And  what  is  right  for  us  to  spend. 


RELIGION. 


381 


I  want  so  much  to  go  to  school ; 

While  father  lived  I  always  went ; 
But  he  had  little,  Lord,  to  leave, 

And  what  he  left  is  almost  spent. 

"  I  do  not  know  how  long  'twill  be 

Ere  this  can  reach  the  golden  gate ; 
But  I  will  try  and  patient  he, 

And  for  the  answer  gladly  wait." 
The  tidings  reached  that  far-off  land, 

Although  the  letter  did  not  go, 
And  straight  the  King  an  angel  sent 

To  help  the  little  boy  below. 

Oft  to  his  mother  he  would  say, 

"  I  knew  the    Lord  would   answer 
make 
When  He  had  read  my  letter  through, 

Which  I  had  sent  for  Jesus'  sake." 
Ah,  happy  boy  !  could  you  but  teach 

Our  hearts  to  trust  our  Father's  love, 
And  to  believe  where  aught's  denied 

'Tis  only  done  our  faith  to  prove ! 


LITTLE  LUCY. 

A  little  child,  six  summers  old, 

So  thoughtful  and  so  fair 
There  seemed  about  her  pleasant  ways 

A  more  than  childish  air, 
Was  sitting  on  a  summer's  eve 

Beneath  a  spreading  tree, 
Intent  upon  an  ancient  book 

That  lay  upon  her  knee. 

She  turned  each  page  with  careful  hand. 

And  strained  her  sight  to  see, 
Until  the  drowsy  shadows  slept 

Upon  the  grassy  lea ; 
Then   closed   the  book,  and  upward 
looked. 

And  straight  began  to  sing 
A  simple  verse  of  hopeful  love — 

This  very  childish  thing : 


"While    here    below    how    sweet    to 
know 

His  wondrous  love  and  story 
And  then,  through  grace,  to  see  His  face. 

And  live  with  Him  in  glory !" 

That  little  child,  one  dreary  night 

Of  winter  wind  and  storm, 
Was  tossing  on  a  weary  couch 

Her  weak  and  wasted  form  ; 
And  in  her  pain,  and  in  its  pause, 

But  clasped  her  hand  in  prayer — 
Strange  that  we  had  no  thoughts  of 
heaven, 

While  hers  were  only  there — 

Until  she  said,  "  Oh,  mother  dear, 

How  sad  you  seem  to  be ! 
Have  you  forgotten  that  He  said, 

;  Let  children  come  to  Me  ?' 
Dear  mother,  bring  the  blessed  Book  ; 

Come,  mother,  let  us  sing." 
And  then  again,  with  faltering  tongue, 

She  sang  that  childish  thing : 
"While  here  below  how  sweet  to  know 

His  wondrous  love  and  story, 
And  then.through  grace.to  see  His  face, 

And  live  with  Him  in  glory  !" 

Underneath  a  spreading  tree 

A  narrow  mound  is  seen, 
Which  first  was  covered  by  the  snow. 

Then  blossomed  into  green. 
Here  first  I  heard  that  childish  voice, 

That  sings  on  earth  no  more  : 
In  heaven  it  hath  a  richer  tone, 

And  sweeter  than  before : 
"  For  those  who   know  His  love  be- 
low "— 

So  runs  the  wondrous  story — 
••  In  heaven,  through  grace,  shall  sec 
His  face, 

And  dwell  with  Him  in  glory  !" 

A.  D.  F.  Easjjolph. 


382 


THE    CHILDREN'S    BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


A  FOREST  SCENE  IN  THE  DAYS  OF  WICKLIFFE. 


A  little  child  she  read  a  book 

Beside  an  open  door : 
And  as  she  read  page  after  page 

She  wondered  more  and  more. 

Her  little  ringers  carefully 
Went  pointing  out  the  place  ; 

Her  golden  looks  hung  drooping  down, 
And  shadowed  half  her  face. 

The  open  book  lay  on  her  knee, 

Her  eyes  on  it  were  bent ; 
And  as  she  read  page  after  page 

Her  color  came  and  went. 


She  sat  upon  a  mossy  stone 

An  open  door  beside  ; 
And  round,  for  miles,  on  every  hand, 

Stretched  out  a  forest  wide. 

The  summer  sun  shone  on  the  trees, 
The  deer  lay  in  the  shade ; 

And  overhead  the  singing  birds 
Their  pleasant  clamor  made. 

There  was  no  garden  round  the  house, 
And  it  was  low  and  small, — 

The  forest  sward  grew  to  the  door ; 
The  lichens  on  the  wall. 


There  was  no  garden  round  about, 
Yet  flowers  were  growing  free — 

The  cowslip  and  the  daffodil 
Upon  the  forest  lea. 

The  butterfly  went  flitting  b}T, 
The  bees  were  in  the  flowers  ; 

But  the  little  child  sat  steadfastly, 
As  she  had  sat  for  hours. 


"  Why  sit  you  here,  my  little  maid  ?" 

An  aged  pilgrim  spake  ; 
The  child  lookedupward  from  her  book, 

Like  one  but  just  awake. 

Back  fell  her  locks  of  golden  hair, 

And  solemn  was  her  look, 
As  thus  she  answered,  witlessly, 

"  Oh,  sir,  I  read  this  book  !" 


RELIGION. 


383 


"  And  what  is  there  within  that  hook 

To  win  a  child  like  thee? 
Up !  join  thy  mates,  the  merry  birds, 

And  frolic  with  the  bee!" 

"  Nay,  sir,  I  cannot  leave  this  hook  ; 

I  love  it  more  than  play ; 
I've  read  all  legends,  but  this  one 

Ne'er  saw  I  till  this  day. 

''And  there  is  something  in  this  book 
That  makes  all  care  begone, — 

And  yet  I  weep,  I  know  not  why, 
As  I  2:0  reading  on." 


"  Oh,  sir,  it  is  a  wondrous  book. 
Better  than  Charlemagne, — 

And,  be  you  pleased  to  leave  me  now, 
I'll  read  in  it  again." 

"  Nay,  read  to  me,"  the  pilgrim  said ; 

And  the  little  child  went  on 
To  read  of  Christ,  as  was  set  forth 

In  the  Gospel  of  St.  John. 

On,  on  she  read,  and  gentle  tears 
Adown  her  cheeks  did  slide  ; 

The  pilgrim  sat  with  bended  head, 
And  he  wept  at  her  side. 


Who    art    thou,    child,    that    thou    "I've    heard,"   said    he,   "the    arch- 


shouldst  read 
A  book  with  mickle  heed  ? 
Books  are  for  clerks — the  king  himself 
Hath  much  ado  to  read/1 

"  My  father  is  a  forester — 
A  bowman  keen  and  good ; 

He  keeps  the  deer  within  their  bound, 
And  Avorketh  in  the  wood. 

"  My  mother  died  in  Candlemas, — 
The  flowers  are  all  in  bloAV 

Upon  her  grave  at  Allonby, 
Down  in  the  dale  below." 

This  said,  unto  her  book  she  turned 

As  steadfast  as  before ; 
"  Nay,"  said  the   pilgrim,  "  nav,  not 

yet, 

And  you  must  tell  me  more. 

"  Who  was  it  taught  you  thus  to  read  ?" 
"Ah,  sir,  it  was  my  mother; 

She  taught  me  both  to  read  and  spell — 
And  so  she  taught  my  brother. 

"  My  brother  dwells  at  Allonby, 
With  the  good  monks  alway  ; 

And  this  new  book  he  brought  to  me, 
But  only  for  one  day. 


bishop, 
I've  heard  the  pope  of  Rome, 
But  never  did  their  spoken  words 
Thus  to  my  spirit  come. 

"  The  book,  it  is  a  blessed  book  ! 

Its  name,  what  may  it  be?" 
Said   she,    ''  They  are   the  words   of 
Christ 

That  I  have  read  to  thee, 
Now  done  into  the  English  tongue 

For  folks  unlearned  as  we." 

"  Sancta  Maria  !"  said  the  man, 
"Our  canons  have  decreed 

That  this  is  an  unholy  book 
For  simple  folks  to  read. 

"  Sancta  Maria  !     Blessed  be  God  ! 

Had  this  good  book  been  mine, 
I  needn't  have  gone  on  pilgrimage 

To  holy  Palestine. 

"Give  me  the  book,  and  let  me  read ! 

My  soul  is  strangely  stirred  ; — 
They  are  such  words  of  love  and  truth 

As  ne'er  before  I  heard." 

The  little  girl  gave  up  the  book, 
And  the  pilgrim,  old  and  brown, 


384 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


With  reverend  lips  did  kiss  the  page, 
Then  on  the  stone  sat  down. 

And  aye  he  read,  page  after  page ; 

Page  after  page  lie  turned  ; 
And  as  he  read  their  blessed  words 

His  heart  within  him  burned. 

Still,  still  the  book  the  old  man  read 
As  he  would  ne'er  have  done ; 

From  the  hour  of  noon  he  read  the 
book, 
Until  the  set  of  the  sun. 

The  little  child  she  brought  him  out 

A  cake  of  wheaten  bread  ; 
But  it  lay  unbroke  at  eventide, 

Nor  did  he  raise  his  head 
Until  he  every  written  page 

Within  the  book  had  read. 

Then  came  the  sturdy  forester 
Along  the  homeward  track, 

Whistling  aloud  a  hunting-tune, 
With  a  slain  deer  on  his  back. 

Loud  greeting  gave  the  forester 

Unto  the  pilgrim  poor  ; 
The   old   man   rose   with    thoughtful 
brow, 

And  entered  at  the  door. 

The  two  had  sat  them  down  to  meat, 
And  the  pilgrim  'gan  to  tell 

How  he  had  eaten  on  Olivet, 
And  drank  at  Jacob's  Well. 

And  then  he  told  how  he  had  knelt 
Where'er  our  Lord  had  prayed — 

How  he  had  in  the  garden  been, 
And  the  tomb  where  He  was  laid ; 

And  then  he  turned  unto  the  book, 
And  read,  in  English  plain, 

How  Christ  had  died  on  Calvary  ; 
How  He  had  risen  again ; 


And  all  His  comfortable  words, 

His  deeds  of  mercy  all, 
He  read,  and  of  the  widow's  mite, 

And  the  poor  prodigal. 

As  water  to  the  parched  soil, 

As  to  the  hungry  bread, 
So  fell  upon  the  woodman's  soul 

Each  word  the  pilgrim  read. 

Thus  through  the  midnight  did  they 
read 

Until  the  dawn  of  day ; 
And  then  came  in  the  woodman's  son 

To  fetch  the  book  away. 

AH  quick  and  troubled  was  his  speech, 

His  face  was  pale  with  dread, 
For  he  said,  "  The  king  hath  made  a 
law 
That  the  book  must  not  be  read — 
l  For  it  was  such  a  fearful  heresy, 
The  holy  abbot  said." 


KNIGHTS  OF  THE  CROSS. 

Sir  John  and  Sir  Bevis  were  knights 
of  old 
Who  went  to  the  Holy  Land ; 
Each  had  a  spirit  free  and  bold, 
Each  had  a  firm,  strong  hand; 
Each  showed  by  the  cross  upon  his 
vest 
He  had  chosen  the  Christian's  part ; 
'Tis  one  thing  to  wear   it  upon  the 
breast, 
Another,  within  the  heart. 
Wise  in  counsel  and  bold  in  fight, 
Tell    me    which    was    the    Christian 
knight  ? 

Sir  John  he  prized  the  wine-cup  well, 
And  sat  at  the  banquet  long; 


RELIGION. 


385 


He  loved  the  boastful  tale  to  tell,  • 
And  to  sing  the  boisterous  song. 

He  slew  the  foe  who  for  mercy  cried, 
And  burned  his  castle  down  ; 

He  wasted  the  country  far  and  wide, 
And  won  what  he  called  renown ; 

But  his  deeds  were  hateful  in  Heaven's 
sight — 

Let   no    one    call    him    a    Christian 
knight. 

Sir  Bevis  supported  the  widow's  cause 

And  upheld  the  orphan's  claim — 
Did   good,   but  never  for  man's   ap- 
plause, 

For  little  he  sought  for  fame. 
When  his  most  bitter  foe  he  found 

Bleeding  upon  the  plain, 
His  thirst  he  quenched  and  his  wounds 
he  bound, 

And  brought  him  to  life  again. 
Gentle  in  peace  as  brave  in  fight, 
Was  not  Sir  Bevis  a  Christian  knight? 

Those  warlike  times,  they  have  passed 
away — 

Knights  wear  the  Bed  Cross  no  more ; 
But  contrasts  exist  in  modern  day 

Great  as  in  days  of  yore. 
Gentle,  generous,  true,  and  kind. 

E'en  in  the  child  we  see 
That  he  may  be  of  a  chivalrous  mind, 

Though  but  of  a  low  degree ; 

Guarding  the  weak   and   loving  the 

right, 

Be  each  British  boy   as  a  Christian 

knight. 

a.  l.  o.  E. 

THE  PARABLE  OF  ST.  CHRISTOPHER. 
To  a  king's  court  a  giant  came, — 

"  Oh,  king,  both  far  and  near 
I  seek,"  he  said,  "  the  greatest  king; 

And  thou  art  he,  I  hear. 


"  If  it  please  thee.  I  will  abide ; 

To  thee  my  knee  shall  bend  ; 
Only  unto  the  greatest  kings 

Can  giants  condescend." 

Right  glad  the  king  the  giant  took 

Into  his  service  then, 
For  since  Goliath's  mighty  days 

No  man  so  big  was  seen. 

Well  pleased  the  giant  too  to  serve 
The  greatest  king  on  earth ; 

He  served  him  well,  in  peace,  in  war, 
In  sorrow,  and  in  mirth, 

Till  came  a  wandering  minstrel  by, 
One  day,  who  played  and  sang 

Wild  songs,  through  which  the  devil's 
name 
Profanely,  loudly  rang. 

Astonished  then,  the  giant  saw 
The  king  look  sore  afraid  ; 

At  mention  of  the  devil's  name 
The  cross's  sign  he  made. 

"  How  now,  my  master  ?     Why  dost 
thou 

Make  on  thy  breast  this  sign  ?" 
He  said.     "  It  is  a  spell,"  replied 

The  king — "  a  spell  divine, 

"  Which  shall  the  devil  circumvent, 
And  keep  me  safe  and  whole 

From  all  the  wicked  arts  he  tries 
To  slay  my  precious  soul." 

"  Oh  ho,  my  master !  then  he  is 

More  powerful  than  thou ! 
They  lied  who  called  thee  greatest  king ; 

I  leave  thy  service  now, 

"  And  seek  the  devil ;  him  will  I 
My  master  call  henceforth," 

The  giant  cried,  and  strode  away, 
Contemptuous  and  wroth. 


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THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


He  found  the  devil  soon.     I  ween 

The  devil  waited  near, 
Well  pleased  to  have  this  mighty  man 

Within  his  ranks  appear. 

They  journeyed  on  full  many  a  day, 
And  now  the  giant  deemed 

At  last  he  had  a  master  found 
Who  was  the  king  he  seemed. 

But  lo  !  one  day  they  came  apace 
To  where  four  roadways  met, 

And  at  the  meeting  of  the  roads 
A  cross  of  stone  was  set. 

The  devil  trembled  and  fell  back, 
And  said,  "  We  go  around." 

"  Now  tell  me,"  fierce  the  giant  cried, 
"  Why  fearest  thou  this  ground  ?" 

The  devil  would  not  answer.  "  Then 
I  leave  thee,  master  mine," 

The  giant  said.  "  Of  something  wrong 
This  mystery  is  sign." 

Then     answered      him     the      fiend, 
ashamed : 

"  'Twas  there  Christ  Jesus  died ; 
Wherever  stands  a  cross  like  that 

I  may  not,  dare  not,  bide." 

"  Ho,  ho !"  the  giant  cried  again, 
Surprised  again,  perplexed ; 

"  Then  Jesus  is  the  greatest  king,— 
I  seek  and  serve  Him  next." 

The  king  named  Jesus,  far  and  near, 

The  weary  giant  sought ; 
His  name  was  everywhere  proclaimed, 

His  image  sold  and  bought, 

His  power  vaunted,  and  His  laws 
Upheld  by  sword  and  fire ; 

But  Him  the  giant  sought  in  vain, 
Until  he  cried  in  ire, 


One  winter  eve,  as  late  he  came 

Upon  a  hermit's  cell : 
"  Now  by  my  troth,  tell  me,  good  saint. 

Where  doth  thy  master  dwell? 

"  For  I  have  sought  him  far  and  wide, 
By  leagues  of  land  and  sea ; 

I  seek  to  be  his  servant  true, 
In  honest  fealty. 

"  I  have  such  strength  as  kings  desire, 
State  to  their  state  to  lend ; 

But  only  to  the  greatest  king 
Can  giants  condescend." 

Then  said  the  hermit,  pale  and  wan : 

"  Oh,  giant  man  !  indeed 
The  King  thou  seekest  doth  all  kings 

In  glorious  power  exceed  ; 

"  But  they  who  see  Him  face  to  face, 

In  full  communion  clear, 
Crowned  with  His  kingdom's  splendor 
bright, 

Must  buy  the  vision  dear. 

"  Dwell  here,  oh  brother,  and  thy  lot 

With  ours  contented  cast; 
And  first,  that  flesh  be  well  subdued, 

For  days  and  nights  thou'lt  fast !" 

"  I  fast !"  the  giant  cried,  amazed. 

"  Good  saint,  111  no  such  thing. 
My  strength  would  fail ;  without  that,  I 

Were  fit  to  serve  no  king !" 

"  Then  thou  must  pray,"  the  hermit 
said  ; 

"  We  kneel  on  yonder  stone, 
And  tell  these  beads,  and  for  each  bead 

A  prayer,  one  by  one." 

The  giant  flung  the  beads  away, 
Laughing  in  scornful  pride. 

"  I  will  not  Avear  my  knees  on  stones ; 
I  know  no  prayers,"  he  cried. 


RELIGION. 


387 


Then  said  the  hermit :  "  Giant,  since 
Thou  canst  not  fast  nor  pray, 

I  know  not  if  our  Master  will 
Save  thee  some  other  way. 

"  But  go  down  to  yon  river  deep, 
Where  pilgrims  daily  sink, 

And  build  for  thee  a  little  hut 
Close  on  the  river's  brink, 

"And  carry  travellers  back  and  forth 

Across  the  raging  stream  ; 
Perchance  this  service  to  our  King, 

A  worthy  one  will  seem." 

"  Xow  that  is  good,"  the  giant  cried  ; 

"  That  work  I  understand  ; 
A  joyous  task  'twill  be  to  bear 

Poor  souls  from  land  to  land, 

"  Who.  but  for  me,  would   sink  and 
drown. 

Good  saint,  thou  hast  at  length 
Made  mention  of  a  work  which  is 

Fit  for  a  giant's  strength." 

For  man}-  a  year,  in  lowly  hut, 

The  giant  dwelt  content 
Upon  the  bank,  and  back  and  forth 

Across  the  stream  he  went, 

And  on  his  giant  shoulders  bore 

All  travellers  who  came, 
By  night,  by  day,  or  rich  or  poor — 

All  in  King  Jesus'  name. 

But  much  he  doubted  if  the  King 
His  work  would  note  or  know, 

And  often  with  a  weary  heart 
He  waded  to  and  fro. 

One   night,  as  wrapped  in   sleep   he 

lay, 

He  sudden  heard  a  call : 
"  Oh,  Christopher,  come  carry  me  !" 
He  sprang,  looked  out,  but  all 


Was  dark  and  silent  on  the  shore. 

"  It  must  be  that  I  dreamed," 
He  said,  and  laid  him  down  again ; 

But  instantly  there  seemed 

Again  the  feeble,  distant  cry  : 
"  Oh,  come  and  carry  me !" 

Again  he  sprang,  and  looked ;  again 
No  living  thing  could  see. 

The   third   time   came   the   plaintive 
voice, 

Like  infant's  soft  and  weak  ; 
With  lantern  strode  the  giant  forth, 

More  carefully  to  seek. 

Down  on  the  bank  a  little  child 
He  found — a  piteous  sight — 

Who,  weeping,  earnestly  implored 
To  cross  that  very  night. 

With  gruff  good- will  he  picked  him  up, 

And  on  his  neck  to  ride 
He    tossed   him,  as   men   play   with 
babes, 

And  plunged  into  the  tide. 

But  as  the  water  closed  around 
His  knees,  the  infant's  weight 

Grew  heavier  and  heavier, 
Until  it  was  so  great 

The  giant  scarce  could  stand  upright ; 

His  staff  shook  in  his  hand, 
His  mighty  knees  bent  under  him, 

He  barely  reached  the  land, 

And,  staggering,  set  the  infant  down, 
And  turned  to  scan  his  face ; 

When,  lo  !  he  saw  a  halo  bright 
Which  lit  up  all  the  place. 

Then  Christopher  fell  down,  afraid 

At  marvel  of  the  thing, 
And  dreamed  not  that  it  was  the  face 

Of  Jesus  Christ  his  King, 


388 


THE    CHJLDBEJY'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


Until  the  infant  spoke  and  said, 
"  Oh,  Christopher,  behold  ! 

I  am  the  Lord  whom  thou  hast  served  I 
Rise  up,  be  glad  and  bold  ! 

"  For  I  have  seen  and  noted  well 

Thy  works  of  charity  ; 
And  that  tbou  art  my  servant  good 

A  token  thou  shalt  see. 

"  Plant  firmly  here  upon  this  bank 
Thy  stalwart  staff  of  pine, 

And  it  shall  blossom  and  bear  fruit 
This  very  hour,  in  sign." 

Then,  vanishing,  the  infant  smiled. 

The  giant,  left  alone, 
Saw  on  the  bank  with  luscious  dates 

His  stout  pine  staff  bent  down. 

For  many  a  year  St.  Christopher 
Served  God  in  many  a  land  ; 

And  master  painters  dreAv  his  face. 
With  loving  heart  and  hand, 

On  altar  fronts  and  church's  walls  ; 

And  peasants  used  to  say, 
To  look  on  good  St.  Christopher 

Brought  luck  for  all  the  day. 

I  think  the  lesson  is  as  good 

To-day  as  it  was  then — 
As  good  to  us  called  Christians 

As  to  the  heathen  men — 

The  lesson  of  St.  Christopher, 

Who  spent  his  strength  for  others, 

And  saved  his  soul  by  working  hard 
To  help  and  save  his  brothers ! 

Helen  Hunt. 

THE  BED-TIME  STORY. 

Two  little  girls  in  their  night-gowns, 
As  white  as  the  newest  snow, 

And  Ted  in  his  little  flannel  suit, 
Like  a  fur-clad  Esquimaux, 


Beg  just  for  a  single  story 

Before  they  creep  to  bed ; 
So,  while  the  room  is  summer  warm, 

And  the  coal-grate  cheery  red, 

I  huddle  them  close  and  cozy 

As  a  little  flock  of  sheep, 
Which  I,  their  shepherd,  strive  to  lead 

Into  the  fold  of  sleep,- 

And  tell  them  about  the  daughter 

Of  Pharaoh  the  king, 
Who  went  to  bathe  at  the  river-side, 

And  saw  such  a  curious  thing 

'Mong  the  water-flags  half  hidden, 
And  just  at  the  brink  afloat ; 

It  was  neither  drifting  trunk  nor  bough, 
Nor  yet  was  an  anchored  boat. 

Outside,  with  pitch  well  guarded, 

Inside,  a  soft  green  braid  ; 
'Twas  a  cradle  wToven  of  bulrushes. 

In  which  a  babe  was  laid. 

Then  the  princess  sent  her  maidens 

To  fetch  it  to  her  side ; 
And  when  she  opened  the  little  ark, 

Behold  !  the  baby  cried. 

"  This   is  one  of  the  Hebrews'  chil- 
dren," 

With  pitying  voice  she  said, 
And  perhaps  a  tender  tear  was  dropped 

Upon  his  little  head. 

And  then  came  the  bab}^'s  sister. 
Who  had  waited  near  to  see 

That  harm  came  not,  and  she  trem- 
bling asked, 
"  Shall  I  bring  a  nurse  for  thee  ?" 

"  Yes,  bring  a  nurse."  And  the  mother 
Was  brought — the  very  one 

Who  had  made  the  cradle  of  bulrushes 
To  save  her  little  son. 


RELIGION. 


380 


And  the  princess  called  him  Moses. 

God  saved  him  thus  to  hless 
His  chosen  people  as  their  guide 

Out  of  the  wilderness. 

For  when  he  had  grown  to  manhood, 
And  saw  their  wrongs  and  woes, 

Filled  with  the  courage  of  the  Lord, 
His  mighty  spirit  rose, 

And  with  faith  and  love  and  patience; 

And  power  to  command, 
He  placed  their  homeless,  weary  feet 

At  last  in  the  promised  land. 

Clara  Doty  Bates. 


THE  BURIAL  OF  MOSES. 

"  Ami  lie  buried  him  in  a  valley  in  the  land  of  Moab 
over  against  Beth-peor;  but  nu  man  knoweth  of  bis 
sepulchre  unto  this  day." 

By  Nebo's  lonely  mountain, 
On  this  side  Jordan's  wave, 

In  a  vale  in  the  land  of  Moab 
There  lies  a  lonely  grave. 

And  no  man  knows  that  sepulchre, 
And  no  man  saw  it  e'er, 

For  the  angels  of  God  upturned  the 
sod 

And  laid  the  dead  man  there. 

That  was  the  grandest  funeral 

That  ever  passed  on  earth ; 
But  no  man  heard  the  trampling, 

Or  saw  the  train  go  forth — 
Noiselessly  as  the.  daylight 

Comes  hack  when  night  is  done. 
And  the   crimson  streak   on   ocean's 
cheek 

Grows  into  the  great  sun  ; 

Noiselessly  as  the  spring-time 
Her  crown  of  verdure  weaves, 

And  all  the  trees  on  all  the  hills 
Open  their  thousand  leaves  ; 


So  without  sound  of  music, 
Or  voice  of  them  that  wept, 

Silently    down   from  the    mountain's 
crown 
The  great  procession  swept. 

Perchance  the  bald  old  eagle 

On  gray  Beth-peor's  height. 
Out  of  his  lonely  eyrie 

Looked  on  the  wondrous  sight ; 
Perchance  the  lion  stalking 

Still  shuns  that  hallowed  spot, 
For  beast  and  bird  have  seen  and  heard 

That  which  man  knoweth  not, 

But  when  the  warrior  dieth, 

His  comrades  in  the  war. 
With  arms  reversed  and  muffled  drum, 

Follow  his  funeral  car; 
They  show  the  banners  taken, 

They  tell  his  battles  won, 
And    after   him   lead   his    masterless 
steed, 

While  peals  the  minute  gun. 

Amid  the  noblest  of  the  land 

We  lay  the  sage  to  rest, 
And  give  the  bard  an  honored  place, 

With  costly  marble  drest, 
In  the  great  minster  transept 

Where  lights  like  glories  fall, 
And  the  organ  rings,  and  the  sweet 
choir  sings 

Along  the  emblazoned  wall. 

This  was  the  truest  warrior 

That  ever  buckled  sword, 
This  the  most  gifted  poet 

That  ever  breathed  a  word ; 
And  never  earth's  philosopher 

Traced  with  his  golden  pen, 
On  the  deathless  page,  truths  half  so 
sage  .• 

As  he  wrote  down  for  men. 


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THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


And  had  he  not  high  honor, — 

The  hillside  for  a  pall, 
To  lie  in  state  while  angels  wait 

With  stars  for  tapers  tall, 
And  the  dark  rock-pines  like  tossing 
plumes, 

Over  his  bier  to  wave, 
And  God's  own  hand,  in  that  lonely 
land, 

To  lay  him  in  the  grave  ? 


In    that     strange     grave    without    a 
name, 
Whence  his  uncoflined  clay 
Shall     break     again,     0     wondrous 
thought ! 
Before  the  judgment  day, 
And  stand  with  glory  wrapt  around 

On  the  hills  he  never  trod, 
And  speak  of  the  strife  that  won  our 
life 
With  the  Incarnate  Son  of  God. 


0  lonely  grave  in  Moab's  land ! 

0  dark  Beth-peor's  hill ! 
Speak    to    these    curious    hearts    of 
ours, 

And  teach  them  to  be  still. 
God  hath  His  mysteries  of  grace, 

Ways  that  we  cannot  tell ; 
He  hides  them  deep,  like  the  hidden 
sleep 

Of  him  He  loved  so  well-. 

Cecil  Frances  Alexander. 


MISSIONARY  HYMN. 

From  Greenland's  icy  mountains, 

From  India's  coral  strand, 
Where  Afric's  sunny  fountains 

Roll  down  their  golden  sand  ; 
From  many  an  ancient  river, 

From  many  a  palmy  plain, 
They  call  us  to  deliver 

Their  land  from  error's  chain. 

What  though  the  spicy  breezes 
Blow  soft  o'er  Ceylon's  isle  ; 

Though  every  prospect  pleases, 
And  only  man  is  vile ; 

In  vain  with  lavish  kindness 
The  gifts  of  God  are  strown ; 

The  heathen  in  his  blindness 
'Bows  down  to  wood  and  stone. 

Can  we,  whose  souls  are  lighted 

With  wisdom  from  on  high, 
Can  we  to  men  benighted. 

The  lamp  of  life  deny  ? 
Salvation  !  0  salvation  ! 

The  joyful  sound  proclaim, 
Till  each  remotest  nation 

Has  learnt  Messiah's  Name. 

Waft,  waft,  ye  winds,  His  story, 

And  you,  ye  waters,  roll, 
Till  like  a  sea  of  glory 

It  spreads  from  pole  to  pole ; 
Till  o'er  our  ransomed  nature 

The  Lamb  for  sinners  slain, 
Redeemer,  King,  Creator, 

In  bliss  returns  to  reign. 

Reginald  Heecr. 


Christmas  and  New  Year. 


Christmas  and  New  Year. 


CHRISTMAS  TREE. 

Hurrah  !  we've  got  him — the  Christ- 
mas tree, 

That  all  the  children  love  to  see  ; 

He  stood  forlorn  in  the  copse  below, 

And  his  outstretched  arms,  they  were 
stiff  with  snow. 

I  should  like  to  know  what  presents 

bright 
Will  hang  on  his  branches  to-morrow 

night; 
But  hush !  we  won't  ask  any  questions 

yet: 
To-morrow  will  show  what  each  will 

get. 

Hurrah !  the  fields  are  all  white  with 

snow, 
But  green  as  ever  his  branches  glow ; 
In  winter  or  summer  no  change  knows 

he- 
He's  always  our  dear  old  Christmas 

tree ! 


HANG  UP  THE  BABY'S  STOCKING. 

Hang  up  the  baby's  stocking : 
Be  sure  you  don't  forget ; 

The  dear  little  dimpled  darling ! 
She  ne'er  saw  Christmas  yet ; 


But  I've  told  her  all  about  it, 

And  she  opened  her  big  blue  eyes. 

And  I'm  sure  she  understood  it — 
She  looked  so  funny  and  wise. 

Dear !  what  a  tiny  stocking  ! 

It  doesn't  take  much  to  hold 
Such  little  pink  toes  as  baby's 

Away  from  the  frost  and  cold. 
But  then  for  the  baby's  Christmas 

It  will  never  do  at  all ; 
Why,  Santa  wouldn't  be  looking 

For  anything  half  so  small. 

I  know  what  will  do  for  the  baby. 

I've  thought  of  the  very  best  plan : 
I'll  borrow  a  stocking  of  grandma. 

The  longest  that  ever  I  can ; 
And   you'll  hang   it   by   mine,   dear 
mother, 

Right  here  in  the  corner,  so ! 
And  write  a  letter  to  Santa, 

And  fasten  it  on  to  the  toe. 

Write,  "  This  is  the  baby's  stocking 

That  hangs  in  the  corner  here ; 
You  never  have  seen  her,  Santa, 

For  she  only  came  this  year ; 
But  she's  just  the  blessedest  baby  ! 

And  now,  before  jo\i  go, 
Just  cram  her  stocking  with  goodies. 

From  the  top  clean  down  to  the  toe. 

Little  Corporal. 
393 


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THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


A  VISIT  FROM  ST.  NICHOLAS. 

Twas    the .  night  before   Christmas,  |  And  mamma  in  her  kerchief,  and  I  in 

my  cap, 
Had  just  settled  our  brains  for  a  long 
winter's  nap, 


when  all  through  the  house 

Not  a  creature  was  stirring,  not  even  a 
mouse; 

The  stockings  were  hung  by  the  chim- 
ney with  care, 

In  hopes  that  St.  Nicholas  soon  would 
be  there  ; 

The  children  were  nestled  all  snug  in 
their  beds, 

While  visions  of  sugar-plums  danced 
through  their  heads ; 


When  out  on  the  lawn  arose  such  a 

clatter, 
I  sprang  from  my  bed  to  see  what  was 

the  matter. 
Away  to  the  window  I   flew  like  a 

flash, 
Tore  open  the  shutters,  and  threw  up 

the  sash. 


CHRISTMAS   AND    NEW    YEAR. 


395 


The  moon  on  the  breast  of  the  new-    A  bundle  of  toys  he  had  flung  on  his 


fallen  snow 


back, 


Gave  a  lustre    of  mid-day  to  objects    And    he   looked   like   a  peddler  just 


below; 


opening  his  pack. 


When   what   to   my  wondering    eyes  [  His  eyes  how  they  twinkled  !  his  dim- 


should  appear, 


pies  how  merry 


But  a  miniature  sleigh,  and  eight  tiny    His  cheeks  were  like  roses,  his  nose 


reindeer, 


like  a  cherry  ; 


With  a  little  old  driver,  so  lively  and    His  droll  little  mouth  was  drawn  up 


quick, 


like  a  bow. 


I  knew  in  a  moment  it  must  be  St.  Nick!    And  the  beard   on   his   chin  was  as 


More  rapid  than  eagles  his    coursers 

they  came, 
And   he  whistled,  and  shouted,  and 

called  them  by  name : 
"  Now,   Dasher !    now,  Dancer !    now, 

Prancer !  now,  Vixen  ! 
On,  Comet !    on,   Cupid !    on,  Donder 

and  Blitzen ! — 
To  the  top  of  the  porch,  to  the  top  of 

the  wall ! 
Now,    dash   away,    dash   away,    dash 

away  all !"' 
As  dry  leaves    that   before  the    wild 

hurricane  fly, 
When  they    meet   with   an   obstacle, 

mount  to  the  sky, 
So  up  to  the  housetop   the  coursers 

they  flew, 
With  the  sleigh  full  of  toys,  and  St. 

Nicholas  too. 
And  then  in  a  twinkling  I  heard  on 

the  roof 


white  as  the  snow. 
The  stump  of  a  pipe  he  held  tight  in 

his  teeth, 
And  the  smoke,  it  encircled  his  head 

like  a  wreath. 
He  had  a  broad  face  and  a  little  round 

belly, 
That  shook,  when  he  laughed,  like  a 

bowl  full  of  jelly. 
He  was  chubby  and  plump — a  right 

jolly  old  elf- — 
And  I  laughed  when  I  saw  him,  in 

spite  of  myself. 
A  wink  of  his  eye,  and  a  twist  of  his 

head, 
Soon  gave  me  to  know  I  had  nothing 

to  dread. 
He  spake  not  a  word,  but  went  straight 

to  his  work, 
And   filled   all   the    stockings ;    then 

turned  with  a  jerk, 
And  laving  his  finger  aside  of  his  nose, 


The  prancing  and  pawing  of  each  lit-    And  giving  a  nod,  up  the  chimney  he 


tie  hoof. 


rose. 


As  I  drew  in  my  head,  and  was  turn-    He  sprang  to  his  sleigh,  to  his  team 


ing  around, 


gave  a  whistle, 


Down  the  chimney  St.  Nicholas  came    And  away  they  all  flew  like  the  down 


with  a  bound. 


of  a  thistle 


He  was  dressed  all  in  fur  from,  his    But  I  heard  him  exclaim,  ere  he  drove 


head  to  his  foot, 


out  of  sight, 


And   his   clothes   were   all   tarnished    "  Happy  Christmas  to  all,  and  to  all  a 


with  ashes  and  soot 


good-night !' 


Clement  C  Moore. 


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THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


THE  TOUR  OF  ST.  NICHOLAS. 

CHAPTER     I. 

Concerning  St.  Nicholas  and  his  astonishing  castle, 
:ind  the  beautiful  presents  he  prepares  for  children 
who  deserve  them. 

Beyond  the  ocean  many  a  mile, 

And  many  a  year  ago, 
There  lived   a  wonderful,   queer  old 
man, 

In  a  wonderful  house  of  snow. 
And  every  little  boy  and  girl, 

As  Christmas  Eves  arrive, 


No  doubt  will  be  very  glad  to  hear 
This  old  man  is  still  alive. 

In  his  house  on  the  top  of  a  hill, 

And  almost  out  of  sight, 
He  keeps  a  great  many  elves  at  work, 

All  working  with  all  their  might, 
To  make  a  million  of  pretty  things — 

Cakes,  sugar-plums,  and  toys — 
To  fill   the  stockings  hung   up,  you 
know, 

By  the  little  girls  and  boys. 


CHRISTMAS   AND    NEW    YEAR. 


397 


It  would  be  a  capital  treat,  be  sure, 
A  glimpse  of  his  wondrous  shop; 
But  the  queer  old  man,  when  a  stran- 
ger comes, 
Orders  every  elf  to  stop  ! 
And  the  house  and  work  and  work- 
men all 
Instantly  take  a  twist, 
And  just  as  you  may  think  you're 
there, 
They  are  off  in  a  frosty  mist. 

But  upon  a  time  a  cunning  boy 

Saw  this  sign  upon  the  gate  : 
"  Nobody  ever  can  enter  here 

Who  lies  abed  too  late. 
Let  all  who  expect  a  good  stocking 
full 

Not  spend  too  much  time  in  play — 
Keep  book  and  work  all  the  while  in 
mind, 

And  be  up  by  the  peep  of  day." 

A  holiday  morning  would  scarce  suf- 
fice 
-To  tell  what  was  making  there : 
Wagons  and  dolls  and  whistles,  birds, 

And  sugar-plums  most  rare  ; 
Little    monkeys    dressed    like    little 
men, 
And  dogs  that  could  almost  bark ; 
Watches  that,  if  they  only  had  wheels, 
Might   beat   the    old   clock   in   the 
Park  ; 

Whole  armies  of  little  soldier-folks, 

All  marching  in  grand  review, 
And  turning  up  their  eyes  at  the  girls, 

As  the  city  soldiers  do  ; 
Engines  fast  hurrying  to  a  fire, 

And  many  a  little  fool 
A-trudging    after   them   through   the 
streets, 

Instead  of  going  to  school ; 


Tin   fiddles,  and  trumpets   made   of 
wood, 

That  will  play  as  good  a  tune 
As   the  wandering   piper  could   per- 
form 

From  New  Year's  Day  till  June ; 
Horses  with  riders  upon  their  backs, 

Coaches  and  carts  and  gigs, 
Each  trying  its  best  to  win  the  race, 

Like  the  Democrats  and  Whigs  ; 

Some  little  fellows  turning  a  crank, 

And  others  beating  a  drum  ; 
Little  pianos  so  exact 

You  can  almost  hear  them  thrum ; 
Tea-sets  and  tables,  quite  complete, 

With  ladies  sitting  around, 
Chatting  as  older  ladies  do, 

But  a  little  more  profound  ; 

Steamboats  made  to  sail  in  a  tub. 

And  fishing-smacks  ahoy, 
And  boats  and  skiffs,  with  oars  and 
sails — 

A  fleet  for  a  sailor-boy  ; 
Ships  of  the  line,  equipped  for  sea, 

With  officers  and  crew, 
Each  with  a  red  cap  on  his  head, 

And  a  jacket  painted  blue  ; 

Bold  pewter  men,  with  pistols  armed, 

About  twenty  rods  apart, 
Each  one  wickedly  taking  aim 

At  his  little  comrade's  heart ; 
And  dancing-jacks,  with  supple  joints, 

That  when  you  pull  a  string- 
Will  give  you  a  right  fair  specimen 

Of  cutting  a  "  pigeon-wing;" 

Ugl}-  old  women,  put  in  a  box 

(As   some   younger  ones   ought  to 
be), 

Which,  when  the  cover  is  lifted  off, 
Fly  out  most  spitefully  ; 


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THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


Ripe  wooden  pears  like  real  fruit, 
Somehow  made  with  a  screw  ; 

Kittens,   with    mice    sewed  to  their 
mouths, 
And  tabby-cats  crying  "mew." 

But  it  were  a  bootless  task  to  tell 

The  length  that  the  list  extends, 
Of  the  curious  gifts  that  the  queer  old 
man 

Prepares  for  his  Christmas  friends. 
Belike,  you  are  guessing  who  he  is, 

And  the  country  whence  he  came — 
Why,  he  was  born  in  Germany, 

And  St.  Nicholas  is  his  name. 

CHAPTER     IT. 

How  St.  Nicholas  got  all  his  packages  ready  toward 
evening,  in  order  to  start  at  sunrise  upon  his  long 
journey,  and  how  he  went  to  Amsterdam,  Paris, 
Loudon,  and  St.  Petersburg,  and  the  presents  he 
left  in  those  cities. 

December's  four-and-twentieth  day 

Through  its  course  was  almost  run  : 
St.  Nicholas  stood  at  his  castle-door 

Awaiting  the  setting  sun. 
His  goods  were  packed  in  a  great  bal- 
loon, 

Near  by  were  his  horse  and  sleigh  ; 
He  had  his  skates  upon  his  feet, 

And  a  ship  getting  under  weigh. 

For  he  was  to  travel  by  sea  and  land, 

And  sometimes  through  the  air, 
And  then  to  skim  on  the  rivers  smooth 

When  the  ice  his  weight  could  bear. 
The  wind  blew  keen,  and  snow  fell  fast, 

But  never  a  whit  cared  he, 
For  he  knew  a  myriad  little  hearts 

Were  beating  that  night  to  see. 

Away  he  flew  to  Amsterdam 
As  soon  as  the  sun  went  down, 

And  left  whole  bushels  of  playthings 
there 
For  every  child  in  town. 


Then  he  tried  his  skates  on  the  Zuyder 
Zee, 
South-west  to  Dover's  Strait; 
Then  southward  ;   with  his  horse  and 
sleigh 
He  was  soon  at  Paris  gate. 

The  king  and  queen  in  the  Tuileries 
sat; 

The  children  had  all  retired, 
And  every  stocking  was  hanging  up, 

As  St.  Nicholas  desired. 
In  one  he  put  a  sceptre  and  crown, 

In  another  a  guillotine, 
And  a  little  man  without  a  head, 

Who  king  of  the  French  had  been. 

Then  down  he  drove  on  the  river  Seine, 

And  on  the  Biscay  bay 
Took  ship  for  famous  London  town, 

And  Dublin  on  his  way. 
In  Dublin,  what  do  you  think  he  left 

For  the  hearty  Irish  boys  ? 
Why,  bags  of  potatoes  instead  of  cakes, 

And  shillalahs  instead  of  toys. 

In   London  he  gave  them  rounds  of 
beef, 
And  two  plum-puddings  apiece, 
Then  stepped  to  Windsor  Palace,  of  • 
course, 
To  see  his  royal  niece ; 
He  gave  her  a  little  Parliament 

Discussing  a  knotty  bill, 
With  two  or  three  nuts  for  them  to 
crack, 
And  a  birch  to  keep  them  still. 

"And  now,"  said  he,  "for  St.  Peters- 
burg ! 
Over  the  cold  North  Sea ;" 
And  up  the  Baltic  he  sped  in  haste, 
And  was  there  when  the  clock  struck 
three. 


CHRISTMAS   AND    NEW    YEAR. 


399 


He  hied  to  the  palace  of  the  czar, 
And  clambered  in  at  the  dome ; 

A  great  many  stockings  were   hung 
around, 
But  the  folks  were  not  at  home. 

He  gave  them  little  Siberian  mines, 

With  little  men  in  chains, 
Who  strove  to  avenge  their  country's 
wrongs, 

And  were  sent  there  for  their  pains. 
He  left  the  emperor  a  map, 

With  Russia  cut  in  four — 
As  much  to  say, "  Good  namesake  Nick, 

Your  sway  will  soon  be  o'er." 

Then  down  he  drove  for  fair  Italy, 

To  call  at  the  Vatican, 
Forgetting  until  he  just  arrived 

That  the  pope  is  a  bachelor  man  ; 
But  he  looked  in  at  St.  Peter's  church, 

And  saw  the  whole  town  at  prayer, 
So  he  left  a  basket  full  at  the  door 

For  all  the  good  children  there. 

Upon  the  Mediterranean  Sea 

He  boarded  his  ship  again, 
And  hoisted  sail  and  steered  west 

For  the  maiden  queen  of  Spain, 
To  give  her  a  legion  of  leaden  men, 

Equipped  from  foot  to  nose, 
And  a  troop  of  wooden  horsemen  too, 

The  rebels  to  oppose. 

CHAPTER     III. 

St.  Nicholas  hurries  away  from  Spain,  and  sets  sail  for 
America.  He  becomes  melancholy  on  seeing  the 
great  alterations  that  have  been  made  in  New 
york. 

O'er  the  Cantabrian  mountains  wild 
He  sped  him  to  the  strand, 

To  meet  his  gallant  little  ship, 
There  waiting  his  command. 

He  showered  beautiful  presents  down 
As  he  went  flying  past, 


Then  put  his  trumpet  to  his  lips. 
And  blew  a  rousing  blast : 

"  Up,  up,  my  little  sailors  brave  ! 

Swiftly  your  anchor  weigh ; 
The  wind  is  fair,  and  we  are  off 

For  far  America." 
By  wind  and  steam  for  Xew  Amster- 
dam, 

Three  thousand  miles  an  hour. 
Onward  he  drove  his  elfin  ship 

With  a  thousand-fairy  power  ! 

Down  at  the  Batten*  he  moored, 

And  gave  a  great  salute 
From    cannon    charged    with    sugar- 
plums, 

And  powder  made  to  suit. 
Then  he  hoisted  out  a  score  of  bales 

Of  his  cakes  and  nuts  and  wares ; 
It  would  have  delighted  you  to  see 

The  heaps  on  the  ferry-stairs. 

"All's  well !   to  bed !"'  the  watchman 
cried — 
•  "  St.  Nicholas  is  here  ! 
How  charming  many  a  stocking  full 

In  the  morning  will  appear ! 
Now  all  good  little  boys  and  girls 

Shall  have  a  noble  treat, 
With  lots  of  pretty  things  to  make 
The  holidays  complete." 

Upon  the  spire  of  old  St.  Paul's 

The  watchman  saw  him  stand, 
Reading  his  list  of  ancient  friends, 

With  his  leather  bags  in  hand. 
'Tis  said  that  he  dropt  a  frozen  tear 

As  he  looked  on  the  street  below, 
And  thought  what  a  mournful  change 
had  come 

Since  Christmas,  years  ago. 


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THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


Those   brave   old   times,  when   great 
mince-pies 

Were  piled  on  every  shelf, 
And  every  Knickerbocker  boy 

Could  go  and  help  himself — 
When  Broadway  was  a  path  for  cows, 

And  all  the  streets  were  lanes, 
And  the  little  houses  were  so  snug, 

With  their  little  bull's-eye  panes  ; 

And    good,   old-fashioned    doorways, 
where 

The  upper  part  swung  in, 
Where  a  Dutchman  could  his  elbows 
lean, 

And  smoke  his  pipe  and  grin. 
The  doughnuts  were  all  good  to  eat, 

And  made  as  big  as  bricks, 
And  'twas  not  thought  unmannerly 

To  eat  as  much  as  six. 

But  long  before  all  this  was  said 

The  stockings  were  all  filled, 
And  the  queer  old   man  was  ska  ting- 
home, 

With  his  nose  a  little  chilled. 
He  whistled  as  he  skimmed  along, . 

Till  the  day  began  to  dawn, 
Then,  giving  a  twirl  in  the  frosty  air, 

Saint  Nicholas  was  gone  ! 

Rev.  Ralph  Hoyt. 


OLD  CHRISTMAS. 

Now  he  who  knows  Old  Christmas, 
He  knows  a  carle  of  worth  ; 

For  he  is  as  good  a  fellow 
As  any  uj^on  the  earth. 

He  comes  warm  cloaked  and  coated, 
And  buttoned  up  to  the  chin, 

And   soon   as   he    comes    anigh    the 
door 
We  open  and  let  him  in. 


We  know  that  he  will  not  fail  us, 
So  we  sweep  the  hearth  up  clean ; 

We  set  him  in  the  old  arm-chair, 
And  a  cushion  whereon  to  lean ; 

And  with  sprigs  of  holly  and  ivy 
We  make  the  house  look  gay, 

Just  out  of  an  old  regard  to  him, 
For  it  was  his  ancient  way. 

We  broach  the  strong  ale-barrel, 
And  bring  out  wine  and  meat ; 

And  thus  have  all  things  ready 
Our  dear  old  friend  to  greet. 

And  soon  the  time  wears  round ; 

The  good  old  carle  we  see 
Coming  anear,  for  a  creditor 

Less  punctual  is  than  he. 

He  comes  with  a  cordial  voice, 
That  does  one  good  to  hear  ; 

He  shakes  one  heartily  by  the  hand, 
As  he  hath  done  many  a  year. 

And  after  the  little  children 
He  asks  in  a  cheerful  tone — 

Jack,  Kate,  and  little  Annie ; 
He  remembers  every  one. 

What  a  fine  old  fellow  he  is, 
With  his  faculties  all  as  clear, 

And  his  heart  as  warm  and  light, 
Asa  man  in  his  fortieth  year  ! 

What  a  fine  old  fellow,  in  troth ! 

Not  one  of  your  griping  elves, 
Who,  with  plenty  of  money  to  sj:>are, 

Think  only  about  themselves. 

Not  he  !  for  he  loveth  the  children, 

And  holiday  begs  for  all ; 
And  comes  with  his  pockets  full  of 
gifts 

For  the  great  ones  and  the  small ; 


CHRISTMAS   AMD    MEW    YEAR. 


401 


With  a  present  for  every  servant — 
For  in  giving  he  does  not  tire — 

From  the  red-faced,  jovial  butler 
To  the  girl  by  the  kitchen  fire. 

And  he  tells  us  witty  old  stories, 
And  singeth  with  might  and  main  ; 

And  we  talk  of  the  old  man's  visit 
Till  the  day  that  he  comes  again. 

Oh,  he  is  a  kind  old  fellow, 
For,  though  the  beef  is  dear, 

He  giveth  the  parish  paupers 
A  good  dinner  once  a  year. 

And  all  the  workhouse  children, 
He  sets  them  down  in  a  row, 

And  giveth  them  rare  plum-pudding, 
And  twopence  apiece  also. 

Oh,  could  you  have  seen  those  pau- 
pers, 
Have  heard  those  children  young, 
You    would    wish    with    them    that 
Christmas 
Came  oft  and  tarried  long. 

He  must  he  a  rich  old  fellow  : 
What  money  he  gives  away ! 

There  is  not  a  lord  in  England 
Could  equal  him  any  day. 

Good  luck  unto  Old  Christmas, 

And  long  life,  let  us  sing ! 
For  he  doth  more  good  unto  the  poor 

Than  many  a  crowned  king. 

Mary  Howitt. 


CHRISTMAS. 
Hark  !  the  merry  pealing  bells 

Steal  upon  the  rising  breeze. 
Echo  through  the  snowy  dells, 

Echo  through  the  leafless  trees. 

26 


I  Hark !  they  say  'tis  Christmas-tide, 

Merry  Christmas  comes  again — 
i  Comes  to  tell  the  world  so  wide 
Who  was  born  the  world  to  gain. 

Men  and  women,  children,  babes, 
Joyful  wake — 'tis  Christmas  Day ! 

Birds,  sing  out  your  sweetest  songs ; 
Sun,  shine  forth  your  brightest  ray. 

Let  all  hearts  with  gladness  bound, 
Let  all  hearts  be  good  and  true ; 

"  Peace  on  earth,  good-will  around," 
Be  our  motto,  ever  new. 

And  let  those  who  thus  rejoice 
Christmas  carols  gladly  raise, 

Joining  heart,  and  soul,  and  voice 
In  our  Christmas  hymns  of  praise. 

Mrs.  Hawtrey. 


CHRISTMAS. 

Here  comes  old  Father  Christmas, 

With  sound  of  fife  and  drums ; 
With  mistletoe  about  his  brows, 

So  merrily  he  comes ! 
His  arms  are  full  of  all  good  cheer, 

His  face  with  laughter  glows, 
He  shines  like  any  household  fire 

Amid  the  cruel  snows. 
He  is  the  old  folks'  Christmas ; 

He  warms  their  hearts  like  wine ; 
He  thaws  their  winter  into  spring, 

And  makes  their  faces  shine. 
Hurrah  for  Father  Christmas  ! 

Ring  all  the  merry  bells  ! 
And  bring  the  grandsires  all  around 

To  hear  the  tale  he  tells. 

Here  comes  the  Christmas  angel, 

So  gentle  and  so  calm  : 
As  softly  as  the  falling  flakes 

He  comes  with  flute  and  psalm. 


402 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


All  in  a  cloud  of  glory, 

As  once  upon  the  plain 
To  shepherd-boys  in  Jewry, 

He  brings  good  news  again. 
He  is  the  young  folks'  Christmas ; 

He  makes  their  eyes  grow  bright 
With    words    of    hope     and     tender 
thought, 

And  visions  of  delight. 
Hail  to  the  Christmas  angel ! 

All  peace  on  earth  he  brings  ; 
He  gathers  all  the  youths  and  maids 

Beneath  his  shining  wings. 

Here  comes  the  little  Christ-child, 

All  innocence  and  joy, 
And  bearing  gifts  in  either  hand 

For  every  girl  and  boy. 
He  tells  the  tender  story 

About  the  Holy  Maid, 
And  Jesus  in  the  manger 

Before  the  oxen  laid. 
Like  any  little  winter  bird 

He  sings  this  sweetest  song, 
Till  all  the  cherubs  in  the  sky 

To  hear  his  carol  throng. 
He  is  the  children's  Christmas; 

They  come  without  a  call, 
To  gather  round  the  gracious  Child, 

Who  bringeth  joy  to  all. 

But  who  shall  bring  their  Christmas 

Who  wrestle  still  with  life  ? 
Not  grandsires,  youths,  or  little  folks, 

But  they  who  wage  the  strife — 
The  fathers  and  the  mothers 

Who  fight  for  homes  and  bread, 
Who  watch  and  ward  the  living, 

And  bury  all  the  dead? 
Ah  !  by  their  side  at  Christmas-tide 

The  Lord  of  Christmas  stands  : 
He  smooths  th  e  furrows  from  their  brow 

With  strong  and  tender  hands. 


"  I  take  my  Christmas  gift,"  He  saith, 
"  From  thee,  tired  soul,  and  he 

W7ho  giveth  to  My  little  ones 
Gives  also  unto  Me." 

Rose  Terry  Cooke. 


WHO  WAS  SANTA  CLAUS? 
All  the  children  in  the  parlor 

Were  busy  at  their  play, 
And  the  mother  listens  earnestly 

To  what  her  children  say. 

Oh,  the  Christmas  Day  is  coming ! 

It  will  very  soon  be  here; 
And  merry  times  we  always  have 

At  Christmas  and  New  Year ! 

We  will  hang  our  biggest  stockings 

Outside  the  nursery  door, 
And  good  Santa  Claus  will  fill  them 

Till  they  touch  upon  the  floor. 

Julia  "  wants  another  dolly, 
Dress,  hat,  shoes,  muff,  and  all, 

And  a  nice  new  book  of  stories, 
A  pretty  cup  and  ball ; 

"  Such  a  cunning  little  bedstead, 
Where  the  dollies  all  may  sleep  ! 

And  some  tiny  cups  and  saucers, 
And  a  darling  little  sheep." 

Poh !     Sammy    "  don't    want    baby- 
things 
Or  lots  of  little  toys, 
But  a  first-rate  sled,  and   handsome 
skates, 
Just  like  the  other  boys." 

Willie  "  would  like  a  rocking-horse, 

With  a  glorious  long  tail ; 
A  paint-box,  and  a  story-book, 

And  a  little  boat  to  sail." 


CHRISTMAS   AjYD    NEW    TEAR. 


403 


But  Annie  "  chose  a  writing-desk, 

All  furnished,  very  neat ; 
A  work-box,  and  a  little  chair, 

Would  make  her  room  complete.'1 

Now,  merry  Christmas  came  at  last, 

And  at  the  nursery  door 
The  stockings  all  were  crowded  lull, 

And  round  upon  the  floor 

Stood  rocking-horse  and  writing-desk, 
Work-box,  and  first-rate  sled, 


Skates,  little  chair,  Miss  Dolly,  too, 
And  darling  Dolly's  bed. 

The  happy  children  wondered  much 
How  Santa  Claus  should  know 

Just  what  they  all  were  wishing  for ; 
"  How  could  he  send  them  so  ?" 

It  seemed  to  puzzle  little  heads, 
None  wiser  than  the  other  ; 

Till  Julia  clapped  her  hands  and  cried, 
"  Oh,  Santa  Claus,  was  mother!" 


CHRISTMAS   BELLS. 

Hark  !  the  Christmas  bells  are  ring-  How  the  merry  peal  is  swelling 

ing —  From     the     gray     old     crumbling 

Ringing  through  the  frosty  air —  tower. 

Happiness  to  each  one  bringing.  To  the  simplest  creature  telling; 

And  release  from  toil  and  care.  Of  Almighty  love  and  power  ! 


404 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


Ankle-deep  the  snow  is  lying, 
Every  spray  is  clothed  in  white, 

Yet  abroad  the  folk  are  hieing, 
Brisk  and  busy,  gay  and  light. 

Now  fresh  helps  and  aids  are  offered 

To  the  aged  and  the  poor, 
And  rare  love-exchanges  proffered 

At  the  lowliest  cottage  door. 

Neighbors  shaking  hands  and  greet- 
ing, 

No  one  sorrowing,  no  one  sad, 
Children  loving  parents  meeting, 

Young  and  old  alike  made  glad. 

Then  while  Christmas  bells  are  ring- 
ing, 

Rich  and  poor,  your  voices  raise, 
And — your  simple  carol  singing — 

Waft  to  heaven  your  grateful  praise. 


ANNIE  AND  WILLIE'S  PRAYER. 

'Twas  the  eve  before  Christmas. 
"  Good-night  "  had  been  said, 

And  Annie  and  Willie  had  crept  into 
bed. 

There  were  tears  on  their  pillows,  and 
tears  in  their  eyes, 

And  each  little  bosom  was  heaving 
with  sighs ; 

For  to-night  their  stern  father's  com- 
mand had  been  given 

That  they  should  retire  precisely  at 
seven — 

Instead  of  at  eight — for  they  troubled 
him  more 

With  questions  unheard  of  than  ever 
before. 

He  had  told  them  he  thought  this  de- 
lusion a  sin, 

No  such  creature  as  "  Santa  Glaus  " 
ever  had  been ; 


And  he  hoped,  after  this,  he  should 
never  more  hear 

How  he  scrambled  down  chimneys 
with  presents  each  year. 

And  this  was  the  reason  that  two  little 
heads 

So  restlessly  toss'd  on  their  soft,  downy 
beds. 

Eight,  nine,  and  the  clock  on  the  stee- 
ple tolled  ten ; 

Not  a  word  had  been  spoken  by  either 
till  then ; 

When  Willie's  sad  face  from  the  blan- 
ket did  peep, 

And  whispered,  "  Dear  Annie,  is  'ou 
fast  as'eep?" 

"  Why,  no,  brother  Willie,"  a  sweet 
voice  replies, 

"  I've  long  tried  in  vain,  but  I  can't 
shut  my  eyes ; 

For  somehow  it  makes  me  so  sorry 
because 

Dear  papa  has  said  there  is  no  '  Santa 
Claus.' 

Now  we  know  there  is,  and  it  can't  be 
denied, 

For  he  came  every  year  before  mamma 
died ; 

But  then  I've  been  thinking  that  she 
used  to  pray, 

And  God  would  hear  everything  mam- 
ma would  say, 

And  maybe  she  ask'd  Him  to  send 
Santa  Claus  here 

With  the  sack  full  of  presents  he 
brought  every  year." 

"Well,  why  tan't  we  p'ay,  dust  as  mam- 
ma did  den, 

And  ask  Dod  to  send  him  with  pres- 
ents aden?" 

"  I've  been  thinking  so  too," — and 
without  a  word  more  [floor, 

Four  little  bare  feet  bounded  out  on  the 


CHRISTMAS   AND    NEW    TEAR. 


405 


And  four  little  knees  the  soft  carpet    They  were  soon  lost  in  slumber,  both 


pressed, 
And  two  tiny  hands  were  clasp'd  close 

to  each  breast. 
"  Now,  Willie,  you  know  we  must  firm- 
ly believe 
That  the   presents  we  ask  for  we're 

sure  to  receive; 
You  must  wait  very  still  till  I  say  the 

'Amen,' 
And  by  that  you  will  know  that  your 

turn  has  come  then. — 
Dear  Jesus,  look  down  on  my  brother 

and  me, 
And  grant  us  the  favor  we're  asking  of 

Thee. 
I  want  a  wax   dolly,  a   tea-set,    and 

ring, 


peaceful  and  deep, 
And  with  fairies  in  Dreamland  were 
roaming  in  sleep. 

Eight,  nine,  and  the  little  French 
clock  had  struck  ten, 

Ere  the  father  had  thought  of  his 
children  again: 

He  seems  now  to  hear  Annie's  half- 
suppressed  sighs, 

And  to  see  the  big  tears  stand  in  Wil- 
lie's blue  eyes. 

"  I  was  harsh  with  my  darlings,"  he 
mentally  said, 

"  And  should  not  have  sent  them  so 
early  to  bed ; 


.     -,  ,  ,   i         ,,         ,  But  then  I  was  troubled ;  my  feelings 

And  an  ebonv  work-box  that  shuts  -        -, 

.,,  .  found  vent ; 

with  a  spring:  !  _,      .      .     j     ,    '      n 

T3-,  j        t  '  j  t  •      ''  -r or  bank-stock  to-day  has  gone  down 

Bless  papa,  dear  J  esus,  and  cause  him  j  J  & 


to  see 


ten  per  cent. ; 


mi    ,  o  m        i  1  But  of  course  they've  forgotten  their 

lnat  banta  Liaus  loves  us  as  much  as  I  ,  ,  /. 

troubles  ere  this, 

And  that  I  denied  them  the  thrice- 


asked-for  kiss. 


does  he : 
Don't  let  him  get  fretful  and   angry 

.,    -,         ,      ,,        wiv  i     a       •        But,  just  to  make  sure,  I'll  steal  up 

At  dear    brother   Willie   and   Annie.  \     .,    .     , 

a'         j)  to  their  door — 

"P'easTl>esus,   'et   Santa  Taus  turn  ;  T°  m?  dar1^  I  ^ever  spoke  harshly 
t  i  -i  ,  uciorG. 

down  to-night, 


And  b'ing  us  some  p'esents  before  it  is 

'ight; 
I  want  he  s'ood  div'me  a  nice  'ittle  s'ed, 


So    saying,   he    softly    ascended   the 

stairs. 


Wid   b'ight   shinin    'miners,   and  all    And  arrived  at  the  door  to  hear  both 


painted  'ed: 


of  their  prayers ; 


A  box  full  of  tandy,  a  book,  and  a    His  Annie's  "  Bless  papa  "  drew  forth 


toy, 


the  big  tears, 


Amen.     And   den,    Desus,    I'll   be   a    And  Willie's  grave  promise  fell  sweet 


dood  boy. 


on  his  ears. 


Their  prayers  being  ended,  they  raised  ,  "  Strange !    strange !    I'd     forgotten,' 


up  their  heads, 


said  he,  with  a  sigh, 


And,  with  hearts  light  and  cheerful,    "  How  I  longed  when  a  child  to  have 


again  sought  their  beds. 


Christmas  draw  nigh. 


406 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF    POETRY. 


I'll  atone  for  my  harshness,"  he  in- 
wardly said, 

"  By  answering  their  prayers  ere  I 
sleep  in  my  bed." 


Now,  as  the  fond  father  the  picture 

surveyed, 
He  thought  for  his  trouble  he'd  amply 

been  paid ; 


Then  he  turned  to  the  stairs  and  softly    And  he  said  to  himself,  as  he  brushed 


went  down, 


off  a  tear, 


Threw    off  velvet   slippers   and    silk    "  I'm  happier  to-night  than  I've  been 


dressing-gown, 


for  a  year ; 


Donned  hat,  coat,  and  boots,  and  was    I've  enjoyed  more  true  pleasure  than 


out  in  the  street — 


ever  before 


A  millionaire  facing  the  cold,  driving    What  care  I  if  bank-stock  falls  ten  per 


sleet ! 


cent,  more? 


Nor  stopped  he  until  he  had  bought    Hereafter  I'll  make  it  a  rule,  I  be- 


every thing, 


lieve, 


From  the  box  full  of  candy  to  the    To  have  Santa   Claus   visit   us   each 


tiny  gold  ring : 
Indeed,  he  kept  adding  so  much  to  his 

store 
That  the  various  presents  outnumbered 

a  score. 
Then  homeward  he  turned,  when  his 

holiday  load, 
With  Aunt  Mary's  help,  in  the  nursery 

was  stowed. 
Miss  Dolly  was  seated  beneath  a  pine 

tree, 
By  the  side  of  a  table  spread  out  for 

her  tea ; 
A  work-box,  well  filled,  in  the  centre 

was  laid, 
And  on  it  the  ring  for  which  Annie 

had  prayed ; 
A  soldier  in  uniform  stood  by  a  sled 


Christmas  Eve." 

So  thinking,  he  gently  extinguished  the 

light, 
And,  tripping  down  stairs,  retired  for 

the  night. 

As  soon  as  the  beams  of  the  bright 

morning  sun 
Put  the   darkness  to  flight,  and  the 

stars  one  by  one, 
Four    little   blue   eyes   out   of   sleep 

opened  wide, 
And  at  the  same  moment  the  presents 

espied ; 
Then  out  of  their  beds  they  sprang 

with  a  bound, 


With  bright  shining  runners,  and  all    And  the  very  gifts  prayed  for  were  all 


painted  red." 


of  them  found. 


There  were   balls,  dogs,  and   horses  ;    They  laughed  and  they  cried  in  their 


books  pleasing  to  see; 


innocent  glee, 


And  birds  of  all  colors  were  perched    And  shouted  for  papa  to  come  quick, 


in  the  tree; 


and  see 


While  Santa  Claus,  laughing,  stood  up    Wh  at  presents  old  Santa  Claus  brought 


in  the  top, 


in  the  night 


As  if  getting  ready  more  presents  to    (Just  the  things  that  they  wanted!), 


drop. 


and  left  before  light. 


CHRISTMAS   AND    NEW    TEAR. 


407 


And  now,''  added  Annie,  in  voice  i  Sliding  down  chimneys  through  ashes 


soft  and  low. 


and  smoke ; 


You'll  believe  there's  a  Santa  Claus,  i  Fur-covered   Kriss,  you're   a   regular 


papa,  I  know ;" 
While  dear  little  Willie  climbed  up  on 

his  knee, 
Determined   no  secret  between  them 

should  be, 
And  told,  in  soft  whispers,  how  Annie 

had  said 
That  their  dear  blessed  mamma,  so 

long  ago  dead, 
Used  to  kneel  down  and  pray  by  the 

side  of  her  chair, 
And  that  God  up  in  heaven  had  an- 
swered her  prayer. 
"  Den  we  dot  up  and  p'ayed  dust  as 

well  as  we  food, 
And  Dod  answered  our  prayers ;  now 

wasn't  He  dood  ?" 
"  I  should  say  that  He  was,  if  He  sent 


joke. 

How  do  you  manage  to   carry  such 

loads  ? 
How  do  you  manage  to  keep  the  right 

roads  ? 
How  do  you  know  all  the  good  girls 

and  boys  ? 
Why  don't  we  wake  with  your  clatter 

and  noise  ? 

How  can  you  guess  what  we  would  all 
like  best  ? 

How  can  }tou  please  all  the  birds  in 
the  nest? 

Kriss,  don't  you  ever  get  mixed  on  the 
toys, 

And  fill  the  girls'  stockings  with  play- 
things for  boys? 


you  all  these, 
And  knew  just  what  presents  my  chil-  |  Q^  what  a  hmTy  yQU  haye  ^  be 

dren  would  please. 
(Well,  well,  let  him  think  so,  the  dear 

little  elf! 
'Twould  be  cruel  to  tell  him  I  did  it 

myself)." 


Blind  father!  who  caused  your  stern 

heart  to  relent, 
And  the  hasty  words  spoken  so  soon 

to  repent? 
'Twas  the  Being  who  bade  you  steal 

softly  up  stairs, 
And  made  you  His  agent  to  answer 

their  prayers. 

Sophia  P.  Snow. 

KITTIE  TO  KRISS. 

Jolly  old  Kriss,  what   a  fellow  you 

are! 
Riding  all  over  the  world  in  the  air ; 


As  soon  as  your  labors  of  Christmas 

begin ! 
What  are  you   doing  the  rest  of  the 

y  ear  ? 
Sleeping,    I    s'pose,   with   your   little 

reindeer. 


Oh,  how  I'd  like  to  know,  true,  if  you 

look 
Jolly   and   fat   like    the   one   in   the 

book  : 
I'd  keep  awake,  but  I  know  that  you 

stay, 
When   children   are   watching,    quite 

out  of  the  way. 

Kriss,  when  to-night  you  come  round 

with  a  whirl, 
Don't  forget  Bessie,  the  washwoman's 

o'irl  ■ 


408 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


Bring  something  pretty,  for  last  year, 

you  know, 
That  was    a    chimney   where    Kriss 

didn't  go. 

How  does  it  happen  you  like  the  rich 

best, 
Giving  them  much,  and  forgetting  the 

rest  ? 
Kriss,  that's  all  wrong,  and  it  isn't  the 

way; 
All  should  be  equal  on  Santa  Claus' 

day. 

Kriss,  good  old  Kriss,  I'm  afraid  you'll 

be  mad. 
I  was  just  joking;  don't  put  me  down 

bad. 
If  Bessie's  ma's  chimney  is  crooked  or 

small, 
Never  mind  going  to  Bessie's  at  all. 

Bring  up  her  playthings  and  put  them 

with  mine, 
Tied  with  a  separate  paper  and  twine. 
As  soon  as  it's  day  poor  sick  Bessie 

I'll  see, 
And  give  her  the  package  you  leave 

here  with  me. 


BENNY. 

I  had  told  him,  Christmas  morning, 

As  he  sat  upon  my  knee, 
Holding  fast  his  little  stockings, 

Stuffed  as  full  as  full  could  be, 
And  attentive  listening  to  me 

With  a  face  demure  and  mild, 
That   good   Santa    Claus,  who    filled 
them, 

Does  not  love  a  naughty  child. 

"  But  we'll  be  good  ;  won't  we,  moder  ?" 
And  from  off  my  lap  he  slid, 


Digging  deep  among  the  goodies 
In  his  crimson  stockings  hid, 

While  I  turned  me  to  my  table, 
Where  a  tempting  goblet  stood, 

Brimming  high  with  dainty  eggnog. 
Sent  me  by  a  neighbor  good. 

But  the  kitten,  there  before  me 

With  his  white  paw,  nothing  loath. 
Sat,  by  way  of  entertainment 

Slapping  off  the  shining  froth  ; 
And,  in  not  the  gentlest  humor 

At  the  loss  of  such  a  treat, 
I  confess  I  rather  rudely 

Thrust  him  out  into  the  street. 

Then  Iioav  Benny's  blue  eyes  kindled ! 

Gathering  up  the  precious  store 
He  had  busily  been  pouring 

In  his  tiny  pinafore, 
With  a  generous  look  that  shamed  me 

Sprang  he  from  the  carpet  bright, 
Showing  by  his  mien  indignant 

All  a  baby's  sense  of  right. 

"  Come    back,    Harney  I1'    called    he 
loudly, 

As  he  held  his  apron  white  ; 
"  You  s'all  have  my  candy  wabbit !" 

But  the  door  was  fastened  tight. 
So  he  stood',  abashed  and  silent, 

In  the  centre  of  the  floor, 
With  defeated  look  alternate 

Bent  on  me  and  on  the  door. 

Then,  as  from  a  sudden  impulse, 

Quickly  ran  he  to  the  fire, 
And,  while  eagerly  his  bright  eyes 

Watched  the  flames   go  high  and 
higher, 
In  a  brave,  clear  key  he  shouted, 

Like  some  lordly  little  elf, 
"Santa  C'aus !  come  down  de  chimney  ; 

Make  my  moder  'have  herse'f !" 


CHRISTMAS   AND    NEW    YEAR. 


400 


"  I  will  be  a  good  girl,  Benny," 

Said  I,  feeling  the  reproof, 
And  straightway  recalled  poor  Harney 

Mewing  on  the  gallery  roof. 
Soon  the  anger  was  forgotten, 

Laughter  chased  away  the  frown, 
And  they  played  beneath  the  live-oaks 

Till  the  dusky  night  came  down. 

In  my  dim  fire-lighted  chamber 

Harney  purred  beneath  my  chair, 
And  my  play-worn  boy  beside  me 

Knelt  to  say  his  evening  prayer : 
"'  God  b'ess  fader !  God  b'ess  moder ! 

God  b'ess  sister  !"  then  a  pause, 
And  the  sweet  young  lips  devoutly 

Murmured,  "God  b'ess  Santa  C'aus !" 

He  is  sleeping ;  brown  and  silken 

Lie  the  lashes  long  and  meek, 
Like  caressing,  clinging  shadows, 

On  his  plump  and  peachy  cheek ; 
And  I  bend  above  him,  weeping 

Thankful  tears,  0  Undefiled  ! 
For  a  woman's  crown  of  glory, 

For  the  blessing  of  a  child  ! 

Annie  Chambees-Ketchum. 

THE  STRANGE  CHILD'S  CHRISTMAS. 
There  went  a  stranger  child, 

As  Christmas  Eve  closed  in. 
Through  the  streets  of  a  town,  whose 
windows  shone 
With  a  warmth  and  light  within. 

It  stopped  at  every  house, 
The  Christmas  trees  to  see, 

On  that  festive  night,  when  they  shone 
so  bright — 
And  it  sighed  right  bitterly. 

Then  wept  the  child,  and  said, 
"  This  night  hath  ev'ry  one 

A  Christmas  tree,  that  he  glad  may  be, 
And  I  alone  have  none. 


"  Ah  !  when  I  lived  at  home. 

From  brother's  and  sister's  hand 

I  had  my  share,  but  there's  none  to 
care 
For  me  in  the  stranger's  land. 

"  Will  no  one  let  me  in  ? 

No  presents  I  would  crave — 
But  to  see  the  light,  and  the  tree  all 
bright, 

And  the  gifts  that  others  have." 

At  shutter,  and  door,  and  gate 
It  knocks  with  timid  hand. 

But  none  will  mark  where  alone  in 
the  dark 
That  little  child  doth  stand. 

Each  father  brings  home  gifts, 
Each  mother,  kind  and  mild  : 

There  is  joy  for  all,  but  none  will  call 
And  welcome  that  lonely  child. 

"  Mother  and  father  are  dead — 

0  Jesus,  kind  and  dear, 

I've  no  one  now,  there  is  none  but 
Thou, 
For  I  am  forgotten  here  !" 

The  poor  child  rubs  its  hands, 
All  frozen  and  numbed  with  cold. 

And    draws    round    its    head,    with 
shrinking  dread, 
Its  garment  worn  and  old. 

But  see  !     Another  child 

Comes  gliding  through  the  street. 
And  its  robe  is  white,  in  its  hands  a 
light, 

It  speaks,  and  its  voice  is  sweet : 

"  Once  on  this  earth  a  child 

1  lived,  as  thou  livest  yet — 
Though  all  turn  away  from  thee  to- 
day. 

Yet  I  will  not  forget. 


410 


THE    CHILDREN'S    BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


"  Each  child,  with  equal  love, 

1  hold  beneath  my  care, 
In   the   street's    dull    gloom,   in    the 
lighted  room, 

1  am  with  them  ev'rywhere. 

"  Here,  in  the  darkness  dim, 
I'll  show  thee,  child,  thy  tree — 

Those  that  spread  their  light  through 
the  chambers  bright 
So  lovely  scarce  can  be." 

And  with  its  white  hand  points 
The  Christ-child  to  the  sky — 

And  lo !  afar,  with  each  lamp  a  star, 
A  tree  gleamed  there  on  high. 

So  far,  and  yet  so#near, 
The  lights  shone  overhead, 

And  all  was  well,  for  the  child  could 
tell 
For  whom  that  tree  was  spread. 

It  gazed  as  in  a  dream, 

And  angels  bent  and  smiled, 

And  with  outstretched  hand  to  that 
brighter  land 
They  carried  the  stranger  child. 

And  the  little  one  went  home, 
■   With  its  Saviour  Christ  to  stay, 
All  the  hunger  and  cold,  and  the  pain 
of  old, 
Forgotten,  and  past  away. 

LITTLE  GRETCHEN. 

Little  Gretchen,  little  Gretchen, 
Wanders  up  and  down  the  street : 

The  snow  is  on  her  yellow  hair, 
The  frost  is  at  her  feet. 

The  rows  of  long  dark  houses 
Without  look  cold  and  damp-, 

By  the  struggling  of  the  moonbeam, 
By  the  flicker  of  the  lamp. 


The  clouds  ride  fast  as  horses, 
The  wind  is  from  the  north  ; 

But  no  one  cares  for  Gretchen, 
And  no  one  looketh  forth. 

Within  those  dark,  damp  houses 

Are  merry  faces  bright, 
And  happy  hearts  are  watching  out 

The  Old  Year's  latest  night. 

The  board  is  spread  with  plenty 
Where  the  smiling  kindred  meet, 

But  the  frost  is  on  the  pavement, 
And  the  beggar's  in  the  street 

With  the  little  box  of  matches 
She  could  not  sell  all  day, 

And  the  thin,  thin,  tattered  mantle 
The  wind  blows  every  way. 

She  clingeth  to  the  railing, 
She  shivers  in  the  gloom  : 

There  are  parents  sitting  snugly 
By  firelight  in  the  room  ; 

And  groups  of  busy  children, 
Withdrawing  just  the  tips 

Of  rosy  fingers  pressed  in  vain 
Against  the  bursting  lips, 

With  grave  and  earnest  faces 
Are  whispering  each  other, 

Of  presents  for  the  New  Year  made 
For  father  or  for  mother. 

But  no  one  talks  to  Gretchen, 
And  no  one  hears  her  speak; 

No  breath  of  little  whispers 
Comes  warmly  to  her  cheek. 

No  little  arms  are  round  her; 

Ah  me !  that  there  should  be, 
With  so  much  happiness  on  earth. 

So  much  of  misery  ! 


CHRISTMAS   AjYB    NEW    TEAR. 


411 


Sure  they  of  many  blessings 
Should  scatter  blessings  round, 

As  laden  boughs  in  autumn  fling 
Their  ripe  fruits  to  the  ground. 

And  the  best  love  man  can  offer 
To  the  God  of  love,  be  sure, 

Is  kindness  to  His  little  ones, 
And  bounty  to  His  poor. 

Little  Gretchen,  little  Gretchen, 

Goes  coldly  on  her  way  ; 
There's  no  one  looketh  out  at  her, 

There's  no  one  bids  her  stay. 

Her  home  is  cold  and  desolate; 

No  smile,  no  food,  no  fire  ; 
But  children  clamorous  for  bread, 

And  an  impatient  sire. 

So  she  sits  down  in  an  angle 
Where  two  great  houses  meet, 

And  she  curleth  up  beneath  her, 
For  warmth,  her  little  feet. 

And  she  looketh  on  the  cold  wall, 

And  on  the  colder  sky, 
And  wonders  if  the  little  stars 

Are  bright  fires  up  on  high. 

She  heard  a  clock  strike  slowly 

Up  in  a  far  church-tower, 
With  such  a  sad  and  solemn  tone, 

Telling  the  midnight  hour  ; 

And  she  thought,  as  she  sat  lonely 
And  listened  to  the  chime, 

Of    wondrous   things   that    she    had 
loved 
To  hear  in  olden  time. 

And  she  remembered  her  of  tales 

.  Her  mother  used  to  tell, 
And  of  the  cradle-songs  she  sang 
When  summer's  twilight  fell ; 


Of  good  men  and  of  angels, 

And  of  the  Holy  Child 
Who  was  cradled  in  a  manger 

When  winter  was  most  wild  ; 

Who  was  poor,  and  cold,  and  hungry, 

And  desolate  and  lone  ; 
And  she  thought  the  song  had  told 
her 

He  was  ever  with  His  own. 

And  all  the  poor,  and  hungry 
And  forsaken  ones  are  His  : 

"  How  good  of  Him  to  look  on  me 
In  such  a  place  as  this  !" 

Colder  it  grows,  and  colder, 
But  she  does  not  feel  it  now, 

For  the  pressure  at  her  heart 
And  the  weight  upon  her  brow. 

But  she  struck  one  little  match 
On  the  wall  so  cold  and  bare. 

That  she  might  look  around  her. 
And  see  if  He  was  there. 

The  single  match  was  kindled, 

And  by  the  light  it  threw 
It  seemed  to  little  Gretchen 

The  wall  was  rent  in  two ; 

And  she  could  see  the  room  within — 
The  room  all  warm  and  bright — 

With  the  fire-glow  red  and  dusky. 
And  the  tapers  all  alight ; 

And  there  were  kindred  gathered 
Round  the  table  richly  spread, 

With  heaps  of  goodly  viands, 
Red  wine  and  pleasant  bread ; 

She  could  smell  the  fragrant  savor. 

She  could  hear  what  they  did  say ; 
Then  all  was  darkness  once  again — 

The  match  had  burnt  away. 


412 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


She  struck  another  hastily  ; 

And  now  she  seemed  to  see, 
Within  the  same  warm  chamber, 

A  glorious  Christmas  tree ; 

The  branches  were  all  laden 

With  such  things  as  children  prize — 
Bright  gifts  for  boy  and  maiden  ; 

She  saw  them  with  her  eyes. 

And  she  almost  seemed  to  touch  them, 
And  to  join  the  welcome  shout, 

When  darkness  fell  around  her, 
For  the  little  match  was  out. 

Another,  yet  another,  she 

Has  tried ;  they  will  not  light, 

Till  all  her  little  store  she  took, 
And  struck  with  all  her  might. 

And  the  whole  miserable  place 
Wras  lighted  with  the  glare, 

And  lo  !  there  hung  a  little  Child 
Before  her  in  the  air. 

There  were  blood-drops  on  His  fore- 
head, 

And  a  spear-wound  in  His  side, 
And  cruel  nail-prints  in  His  feet, 

And  in  His  hands  spread  wide  ; 

And  He  looked  upon  her  gently, 
And  she  felt  that  He  had  known 

Pain,  hunger,  cold,  and  sorrow — 
Ay,  equal  to  her  own ; 

And  He  pointed  to  the  laden  board, 
And  to  the  Christinas  tree, 

Then  up  to  the  cold  sky,  and  said, 
"  Will  Gretchen  come  with  me  ?" 

The  poor  child  felt  her  pulses  fail, 
She  felt  her  eyeballs  swim ; 

And  a  ringing  sound  was  in  her  ears, 
Like  her  dead  mother's  hymn. 


And  she  folded  both  her  thin  white 
hands, 

And  turned  from  that  bright  board, 
And  from  the  golden  gifts,  and  said, 

"  With  Thee,  with  Thee,  0  Lord!" 

The  chilty  winter  morning 
Breaks  up  in  the  dull  skies, 

On  the  city  wrapped  in  vapor, 
On  the  spot  where  Gretchen  lies. 

The  night  was  cold  and  stormy, 
The  morn  is  cold  and  gray ; 

The  good  church-bells  are  ringing 
Christ's  Circumcision  Day. 

In  her  scant  and  tattered  garment, 
With  her  back  against  the  wall, 

She  sitteth  cold  and  rigid — 
She  answers  not  their  call. 

They  have  lifted  her  up  fearfully  ; 

They  shuddered  as  they  said, 
"  It  was  a  bitter,  bitter  night — 

The  child  is  frozen  dead." 

The  angels  sang  their  greeting 
For  one  more  redeemed  from  sin  ; 

Men  said,  "  It  was  a  bitter  night ; 
Would  no  one  let  her  in?" 

And  they  shuddered  as  they  spoke  of 
her, 

And  sighed.     They  could  not  see 
How  much  of  happiness  there  was 

With  so  much  misery. 

Hans  Christian  Andersen. 


THE  ROBIN'S  CHRISTMAS  EVE. 

Twas  Christmas-time :  a  dreary  night; 
The  snow  fell  thick  and  fast, 
j  And  o'er  the  country  swept  the  wind, 
I      A  keen  and  wintry  blast. 


CHRISTMAS   AND    NEW    YEAR. 


413 


The  little  ones  were  all  in  bed, 
Crouching  beneath  the  clothes, 

Half  trembling  at  the  angry  wind, 
Which  wildly  fell  and  rose. 

Old  Jem  the  sexton  rubbed  his  leg, 

For  he  had  got  the  gout ; 
He  said  he  thought  it  wondrous  hard 

That  he  must  sally  out. 

Not  far  from  Jem's  another  house. 
Of  different  size  and  form, 

Raised  high  its  head,  defying  well 
The  fierce  and  pelting  storm. 

It  was  the  Judge's  stately  home — 
A  rare,  upright  Judge  was  he, 

As  brave  and  true  a  gentleman 
As  any  one  could  see. 

The  Judge's  lady  and  himself 

Sat  cozily  together, 
When  suddenly  he  roused  himself 

To  see  the  kind  of  weather. 

Lifting  the  shutters'  ponderous  bar, 
He  threw  them  open  wide, 

And  very  dark  and  cold  and  drear 
He  thought  it  looked  outside. 

Ah,  Judge !  little  do  you  think 
A  trembling  beggar's  near, 

Although  his  form  you  do  not  see. 
His  voice  you  do  not  hear. 

Yes,  there  he  stands — so  very  close, 
He  taps  the  window-pane, 

And  when  he  sees  you  turn  away. 
He  feebly  taps  again. 

But  all  in  vain  !  the  heavy  bar 

Was  fastened  as  before ; 
The  Judge's  portly  form  retraced 

His  highly-polished  floor. 


Now,  is  there  any  one  who  thinks 

It  cannot  be  worth  while 
To  write  about  a  robin's  fate, 

And  treat  it  with  a  smile  ? 

If  so,  I  bid  them  to  their  mind 
Those  words  of  Scripture  call 

Which    say   that   not   without    God's 
will 
E'en  little  birds  can  fall. 

Our  Robin's  history  simple  was, 
There  is  not  much  to  tell — 

A  little  happy  singing-bird, 
Born  in  a  neighboring  dell ; 

And    through   the    summer,    in   the 
wood, 

Life  went  on  merrily, 
But  winter  came,  and  then  he  found 

More  full  of  care  was  he. 

For   food    grew    scarce ;    so,    having 
spied 

Some  holly-berries  red 
Within  the  rectory  garden-grounds, 

Thither  our  hero  fled. 

One  evening  everything  was  dull, 
The  clouds  looked  very  black, 

The  wind  ran  howling  through  the 
sky, 
And  then  came  grumbling  back. 

The  robin  early  went  to  bed, 
Puffed  out  just  like  a  ball ; 

He  slept  all  night  on  one  small  leg, 
Yet  managed  not  to  fall. 

When  morning  came  he  left  the  tree, 
But  stared  in  great  surprise 

Upon  the  strange,  unusual  scene 
That  lay  before  his  eves. 


414 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


It  seemed  as  if  a  great  white  sheet 
Were  flung  all  o'er  the  lawn ; 

The  flower-beds,  the  paths,  the  trees, 
And  all  the  shrubs  were  gone. 

His  little  feet  grew  sadly  cold, 

And  felt  all  slippery  too; 
He  stumbled  when  he  hopped  along, 

As  folks  on  ice  will  do. 

And  yet  he  had  not  learnt  the  worst 
Of  this  new  state  of  things — 

He'd  still  to  feel  the  gnawing  pangs 
That  cruel  hunger  brings. 

No  food  to-day  had  touched  his  beak, 

And  not  a  chance  had  he 
Of  ever  touching  it  again, 

As  far  as  he  could  see. 

At  length,  by  way  of  passing  time, 

He  tried  to  take  a  nap, 
But  started  up  when  on  his  head 

He  felt  a  gentle  tap. 

'Twas  but  a  snowflake,  after  all ! 

Yet,  in  his  wretched  plight, 
The  smallest  thing  could  frighten  him, 

And  make  him  take  his  flight. 

But  soon  he  found  he  must  not  hope 
From  these  soft  flakes  to  fly : 

Down  they  came   feathering   on   his 
head, 
His  back,  his  tail,  his  eye ! 

No  gardeners  appeared  that  day. 

The  Rector's  step  came  by, 
And  Robin  fluttered  o'er  the  snow 

To  try  and  catch  his  eye. 

But  being  Christmas  Eve,  perhaps 
His  sermons  filled  his  mind, 

For  on  he  walked,  and  never  heard 
The  little  chirp  behind. 


Half  blinded,  on  and  on  he  roamed, 
Quite  through  the  Judge's  park  ; 

At  last  he  stood  before  the  house, 
But  all  was  cold  and  dark. 

Now  suddenly  his  heart  beats  high! 

He  sees  a  brilliant  glare,   . 
Shutters  unfold  before  his  eyes — 

A  sturdy  form  stands  there ! 

He  almost  frantic  grew,  poor  bird  ! 

Fluttered,  and  tapped  the  pane, 
Pressed  hard  his  breast  against  the 
glass, 

And  chirped,  but  all  in  vain ! 

So  on  he  went,  and,  as  it  chanced. 

He  passed  into  a  lane, 
And  once  again  he  saw  a  light 

Inside  a  window-pane. 

Chanced,  did  we  say? — let  no  such 
word 

Upon  our  page  appear : 
Not  chance,  but  watchful  Providence, 

Has  led  poor  Robin  here. 

'Twas  Jem  the  sexton's  house  from 
which 

Shone  forth  that  cheering  light, 
For  Jem  had  drawn  the  curtain  back 

To  gaze  upon  the  night. 

And  now,  with  lantern  in  his  hand, 
He  hobbles  down  the  lane, 

Muttering  and  grumbling  to  himself, 
Because  his  foot's  in  pain. 

He  gains  the  church,  then  for  the  key 

Within  his  pocket  feels, 
And  as  he  puts  it  in  the  door 

Robin  is  at  his  heels. 

Jem    thought,     when     entering     the 
church, 
That  he  was  all  alone, 


CHRISTMAS   AND    NEW    YEAR. 


415 


Xor  dreamed  a  little  stranger  bird 
Had  to  its  refuge  flown. 

The  stove  had  not  burnt  very  low, 
But  still  was  warm  and  bright, 

And  round  the  spot  whereon  it  stood 
Threw  forth  a  cheerful  light. 

Jem  lost  no  time :  he  flung  on  coals, 

And  raked  the  ashes  out, 
Then  hurried  off  to  go  to  bed, 

Still  grumbling  at  his  gout. 

Now  Robin  from  a  corner  hopped 

"Within  the  fire's  light; 
Shivering  and  cold,  it  was  to  him 

A  most  enchanting  sight. 

But  he  is  almost  starved,  poor  bird  ! 

Food  he  must  have,  or  die  ; 
Useless  it  seems,  alas  !  for  that 

Within  these  walls  to  try. 

Yet,  see !  he  makes  a  sudden  dart : 
His  searching  eye  has  found 

The  greatest  treasure  he  could  have — 
Some  bread-crumbs  on  the  ground. 

Perhaps    'tis   thought   by  those   who 
read 
Too  doubtful  to  be  true, 
That  just  when  they  were  wanted  so 
Some   hand   should    bread-crumbs 
strew. 

But  this  is  how  it  came  to  pass : 
An  ancient  dame  had  said 

Her  legacy  unto  the  poor 

Should  all  be  spent  in  bread ; 

So  every  week  twelve  wheaten  loaves 
The  sexton  brought  himself; 

And    crumbs    had    doubtless    fallen 
when 
He  placed  them  on  the  shelf. 


Enough  there  were  for  quite  a  feast. 

Robin  was  glad  to  find  ; 
The  hungry  fellow  ate  them  all. 

Nor  left  one  crumb  behind. 

He  soon  was  quite  himself  again. 

And  it  must  be  confessed 
His  first  thought,  being  warmed  and 
fed, 

Was  all  about  his  breast. 

To  smooth  its  scarlet  feathers  down 

Our  hero  did  not  fail, 
And  when  he'd  made  it  smart,  he  then 

Attended  to  his  tail ! 

Worn  though  he  was  with  sheer  fa- 
tigue 

And  being  up  so  late, 
He  did  not  like  to  go  to  bed 

In  such  a  rumpled  state. 

His  toilet  done,  he  went  to  sleep. 

And  never  once  awoke 
Till,  coming  in  on  Christmas  morn, 

Jem  gave  the  stove  a  poke. 

Then  in  alarm  he  flew  away 

Along  the  middle  aisle. 
And  perching  on  the  pulpit-top 

He  rested  there  a  while. 


But  what  an  unexpected  sight 
Is  this  that  meets  his  eyes ! 

The   church    is    dressed   with 
green, 
To  him  so  great  a  jjrize  ; 


hollv 


For   'mongst   the    leaves   the    berries 
hung, 

Inviting  him  to  eat ; 
On  every  side  were  hundreds  more — 

A  rich  and  endless  treat. 


416 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


He   could    not    know  that  Christian  ' 
folks 

Had  brought  the  holly  green, 
That  so  their  joy  for  Jesu's  birth 

Might  in  this  way  be  seen. 

Now.  very  soon  a  little  troop 

Of  children  entered  in  : 
They    came    to    practise     Christmas 
songs 

Ere  service  should  begin. 

The  Rector  followed  them  himself, 
To  help  the  young  ones  on, 

And  teach  their  voices  how  to  sing 
In  tune  their  Christmas  song. 

And  first  he  charged  them  all  to  try 
And  feel  the  words  they  sang ; 

Then  reading  from  his  open  book, 
He  thus  the  hymn  began  : 

L'  Glory  to  God  from  all 

To  whom  He's  given  breath  ; 

Glory  to  God  from  all 

Whom  He  has  saved  from  death/' 


Now,   when  the    Rector's    voice    had 
ceased, 

The  children,  led  by  him, 
Were  just  about,  with  earnest  voice, 

The  verse  of  praise  to  sing, 

When  suddenly,  from  high  above, 

Another  song  they  hear, 
And  all  look  up  in  hushed  amaze, 

At  notes  so  sweet  and  clear. 

'Twas  Robin,  sitting  on  a  spray 

Of  twisted  holly  bright ; 
His  light  weight  swayed  it  as  he  sang 

His  song  with  all  his  might. 

His  heart  was  full  of  happiness, 
And  this  it  was  that  drew 


Praise  to  his  Maker  in  the  way — 
The  only  wa}7 — he  knew. 

It  seemed  as  though  he  understood 
The  words  he  just  had  heard, 

As  if  he  felt  they  suited  him, 
Though  but  a  little  bird. 

The  Rector's  finger,  lifted  up, 
Kept  all  the  children  still, 

Their  eyes  uplifted  to  the  bird 
Singing  with  open  bill. 

They    scarcely    breathed,    lest    they 
should  lose 

One  note  of  that  sweet  strain  ; 
And  Robin  scarcely  paused  before 

He  took  it  up  again. 

Now,   when    he    ceased,    the    Rector 
thought 

That  he  would  say  a  word, 
For  Robin's  tale  had  in  his  breast 

A  strong  emotion  stirred. 

"  Children,"  said  he,  "  that  little  voice 
A  lesson  should  have  taught : 

It  seems  to  me  the  robin's  song 
Is  with  instruction  fraught. 

"  He  was,  no  doubt,  in  great  distress : 
Deep  snow  was  all  around ; 

He  might  have  starved,  but  coming 
here 
Both  food  and  shelter  found. 

"  Seek  God,  my  children,  and  when 
times 

Of  storm  and  trouble  come, 
He'll  guide  you  as  He  did  the  bird, 

And  safely  lead  you  home. 

"  Another  lesson  we  may  learn 
From  those  sweet  notes  we  heard, 

That  God  has  given  voice  of  j^raise 
To  that  unconscious  bird; 


CHRISTMAS   AMD    MEW    TEAR. 


All 


"  But  unto  us  His  love  bestows 

A  far  more  glorious  gift, 
For  we  have  reason,  and  our  souls, 

As  well  as  voice,  can  lift." 

The  Rector  paused,  for  now  rang  forth 
The  merry  Christmas  chime, 

And  warned  them  all  that  it  was  near 
The  usual  service-time. 

And  we  must  close  the  robin's  tale : 

'Twill  be  a  blessed  thing 

Should  it  have  taught  but  one  young 

voice 

To  praise  as  well  as  sing. 

c.  E.  B. 

THE  DOGS'  CHRISTMAS  DINNER. 

The  church-bells  rang  out  one  Christ- 
mas morn 
Merrily  on  the  clear,  cold  air; 


"  The  least  of  these,"  the  old  priest 
said  ; 
And  Bessie  whispered,  "  The  least 
of  these," 
While  she  bowed  her  light-crowned 
golden  head, 
And   whimpered  "  Our  Father  "  on 
bended  knees. 

At  last,  when  the  people  went  their 
way 
With  words  of  kindly  greeting  and 
cheer, 
Little  bright-eyed  Bess  was  heard  to 
say, 
"  'Tis   the    Christ-child    makes    us 
happy  here." 

And   again,   when   the   feasters   were 
happy  at  home, 
And  grace  had  been  said  for  bounty 
given. 


They  seemed  to  say,  "Our  Christ  is    Little  Bess  said  softly,  "  The  poor  have 
born  : 


Come  worship  Him  here,  both  young 
and  fair." 


And  by  and  by,  when  they  slowly 
tolled, 
A  little  fairy  with  golden  hair 
Walked  up  the  steps  with  her  grand- 
sire  old, 
And  paused  in  a  pew  near  the  chan- 
cel-stair. 


Her  golden  locks  floated  softly  down, 
Just  kissed   by  a  band  of  ribbon 
blue, 
Which  held  it  back,  with  a  knot  on 
the  crown, 
And   left  her  bright  eyes  peeping 
through. 

27 


none, 

But  Christmas  iv ill  wait  for  them  up  in 
heaven." 

At  the  feast  they  missed  the  thought- 
ful child ; 
And,  searching  without  and  within, 
they  found 
Little  Bess  on  the  steps,  where  she  sat 
and  smiled, 
While  the  dogs  of  the   household 
gathered  round. 

There  was  Hero  the  hunter,  brave  in 
the  chase, 
And   Lion  the   fearless,  and   poor, 
ugly  Pug, 
And  grizzly  Towser  fleet  in  the  race, 
And  dear  little  Snip  who  lived  on  a 
rug. 


418 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


From  a   plate   in  her   lap   the   little 
queen  gave 
Each  doggie  a  morsel  of  Christmas 
cheer, 
While  over  her  head   sat  pussy-cat 
Dave, 
Half  ready  to  die  with   envy  and 
fear. 

All    over  the  steps  the  holly-sprays 
fell, 
Even  down  to  the  feet  of  the  little 
queen, 
Who  watched  her  loving  suhjects  well, 
And  declared  "  such  a  dinner  never 
was  seen." 

They  found  her  there ;  and  an  artist 

drew 
The  pictures  at  once,  dear  readers,  for 

you; 
And  little  Bess  said,  "  Papa,  if  you 

please, 
Aren't  our  dear  doggies  '  the  least  of 

these '  ?  " 

Kate  Tannatt  Woods. 


THE  LAST  DAY  OF  THE  YEAR. 
Come,  bairns,  come  all  to  the  frolic 

To-morrow,  you  know,  is  New  Year's 
Day; 
The  cold  winds  blow, 
And  down  falls  the  snow, 

But  merrily,  merrily  dance  away. 


There's  Johnny  Frost  with  his  head  so 
white, 

Would  fain  be  in  the  warm  firelight ; 
But  if  he  should  try, 
Up  the  chimney  he'd  fly, 

And  thaw  full  quickly  out  of  our  sight ! 

He's  stopped  the    streamlet's    noisy 

brawl, 
Hung  frost-work  o'er  the  waterfall ; 
The  flowers  are  all  dead, 
And  the  wee  birds  fled, 
But  they'll  all  be  back  at  the  sweet 
Spring's  call. 

We'll  not  sleep  a  wink  till  the  year 

comes  in, 
Till  the  clock  strikes  twelve  and  the 
fun  begin  ; 

And  then  with  a  cheer 
To  the  new-born  year, 
How   the   streets  will  ring  with  the 
roaring  din ! 

A  blithe  new  year  we  wish  you  all, 
And  many  returns  to  bless  you  all, 

And  may  each  one  you  see 

Aye  merrier  be, 
While  round  the  fire  we  greet  you  all. 

So,  bairns,  come  all  to  the  frolic  play, 
To-morrow,  you  know,  is  New  Year's 
Day; 

Though  the  cold  winds  blow, 
And  down  falls  the  snow, 
Yet  merrily,  merrily  dance  away. 

Alexander  Smart. 


OLD  TALES  AND  BALLADS, 


Old  Tales  and  Ballads. 


A  DREAM  ABOUT  THE  OLD  NURSERY 
RHYMES. 

Oh,  that  day  last  December  ! 
Well,  well  I  remember 

How  tired  I  felt  after  school, 
On  the  sofa  reposing. 
With  just  my  eyes  closing, 

While  puss  went  to  sleep  on  a  stool ! 

Sure !  could  I  be  sleeping 
When  something  came  creeping 

So  lightly,  like  pussy's  soft  paw? 
And  then  little  Bo-peep, 
Come  to  look  for  her  sheep, 

Quite  close  to  the  pillow  I  saw  ! 

And  I  heard,  "  Ding-dong,  bell ; 
See  poor  puss  in  the  well ;" 

And  then,  "  Diccory,  diccory  dock." 
Quick  I  looked  round  to  see 
What  it  ever  could  be, 

When  a  little   mouse   ran   up   the 
clock. 

Next  I  saw  Mother  Hubbard 
Go  up  to  her  cupboard, 

And  grumble  to  find  it  so  bare ; 
And  that  poor  Simple  Simon 
Walk  up  to  the  pieman, 

And  beg  for  a  taste  of  his  wTare. 

And  I  heard  mamma  tell 
What  each  piggy  befell, 


And  I  saw  baby  dance  up  and  down ; 
And  the  fair  Queen  of  Hearts 
Busy  making  her  tarts, 

With,  oh   dear !    such   a   glittering 
crown. 

And  the  bird  that  went  hop, 
And  the  girl  that  cried  "  Shop !" 
And  the  children'  that  lived  in  a 
shoe ; 
And  the  woman  who  found 
Sixpence  down  on  the  ground, 

And  the  youth  who  that  maiden  did 
woo. 

I  saw  Mary's  bright  fellow, 
With  feathers  so  yellow, 

And   Red  Riding-Hood  off  to   the 
wood, 
And  the  maid  with  the  clothes, 
And  Miss  Netticoat's  nose, 

Who   grew   shorter   the  longer  she 
stood. 

And  I  saw  poor  Miss  Muffet 
Jump  up  from  her  tuffet, 

And  the  spider  that  frightened  her 
too; 
And  just  then  rustled  by, 
On  her  way  to  the  sky, 

The  old  dame  on  a  broomstick  that 
flew. 

421 


422 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


I.  saw  little  Miss  Mary, 
So  very  contrary, 

Who  walks  where  the  purple  bells 
grow, 
And  the  man  with  the  drum, 
Just  as  big  as  your  thumb, 

And  the  old  cock  beginning  to  crow. 

Oh,  that  day  last  December ! 
Whene'er  I  remember, 

Other  days  dull  and  stupid  all  seem. 
Oh,  that  wonderful  day  ! 
But  why  will  they  all  say, 

"  It  was  nothing  at  all  but  a  dream  "  ? 

M.  H.  F.  D. 


OLD  STORY-BOOKS. 

Old  story-books  1  old  story-books !  we 

owe  ye  much,  old  friends — 
Bright-colored    threads   in   memory's 

warp,  of  which  Death  holds  the 

ends. 
Who  can  forget  ye  ? — who  can  spurn 

the  ministers  of  joy 
That  waited  on  the  lisping  girl  and 

petticoated  boy? 
I  know  that  ye  could  win  my  heart 

when  every  bribe  and  threat 
Failed  to  allay  my  stamping  rage  or 

break  my  sullen  pet ; 
A  "  promised  story  "  was  enough — I 

turned  with  eager  smile 
To  learn  about  the  naughty  "  Pig  that 

would  not  mount  the  stile." 

There  was  a  spot  in  days  of  yore 
whereon  I  used  to  stand 

With  mighty  questions  in  my  head 
and  penny  in  my  hand; 

Where  motley  sweets  and  crinkled 
cakes  made  up  a  goodly  show, 

And  "  story-books  "  upon  a  string  ap- 
peared in  brilliant  row. 


What  should  I  have?  The  pepper- 
mint was  incense  in  my  nose, 

But  I  had  heard  of  "  Hero  Jack  "  who 
slew  his  giant  foes  : 

My  lonely  coin  was  balanced  long  be- 
fore the  tempting  stall, 

'Twixt  book  and  bull's-eye,  but,  for- 
sooth !  "  Jack  "  got  it  after  all. 

Talk  of  your  "vellum,  gold-embossed," 

"  morocco,"  "  roan  "  and  "  calf!" 
The  blue  and  yellow  wraps   of  old 

were  prettier  by  half; 
And  as  to  pictures  !  well  we  know  that 

never  one  was  made 
Like  that  where  "  Bluebeard  "  swings 

aloft  his  wife-destroying  blade. 
"  Hume's    England  !"    Pshaw !    what 

history    of    battles,    states,    and 

men 
Can  vie  with  memoirs  "all  about  sweet 

little  Jenny  Wren"? 
And  what  are  all   the  wonders   that 

e'er  struck  a  nation  dumb 
To   those   recorded   as  performed  by 

"Master  Thomas  Thumb"? 

"Miss  Kiding-Hood,"  poor  luckless 
child !  my  heart  grew  big  with 
dread 

When  the  grim  "  wolf,"  in  grandmam- 
ma's best  bonnet,  showed  his 
head ; 

I  shuddered  when,  in  innocence,  she 
meekly  peeped  beneath, 

And  made  remarks  about  "great  eyes  " 
and  wondered  at  "  great  teeth." 

And  then  the  "  House  that  Jack 
built,"  and  the  "Bean-stalk  Jack 
cut  down," 

And  "Jack's  eleven  brothers  "  on  their 
travels  of  renown  ; 


OLD    TALES   AjYD    BALLADS. 


423 


And  "Jack,''  whose  cracked  and  plas- 
tered head  ensured  him  lyric 
fame ! 

These,  these,  methinks  made  vulgar 
"  Jack  "  a  rather  classic  name. 

Fair  "  Valentine,"  I  loved  him  well ; 

but  better  still  the  bear 
That  hugged  his  brother  in  her  arms 

with  tenderness  and  care ; 
I  lingered   spellbound  o'er  the   page, 

though  eventide  wore  late, 
And  left  my  supper  all  untouched  to 

fathom  "Orson's"  fate. 
Then  "  Robin  with  his  merry  men,"  a 

noble  band  were  they  ; 
We'll   never   see    the   like   again,   go 

hunting  where  we  may. 
In  Lincoln  garb,  with  bow  and  barb, 

rapt  Fancy  bore  me  on 
Through     Sherwood's     dewy    forest- 
paths,  close  after  "  Little  John." 

"  Miss   Cinderella  "   and  her   "  shoe  " 

kept  long  their  reigning  powers, 
Till  harder  words  and  longer  themes 

beguiled  my  flying  hours ; 
And   "  Sinbad,"  wondrous  sailor  he ! 

allured  me  on  his  track, 
And  set  me  shouting  when  he  flung 

the  old  man  from  his  back. 
And   oh !    that   tale — that   matchless 

tale,  that  made  me  dream  at  night 
Of  "Crusoe's"  shaggy  robe  of  fur,  and 

"  Friday's  "  death-spurred  flight ; 
Nay,   still   I   read   it,  and   again,    in 

sleeping  visions,  see 
The  savage  dancer  on  the  sand — the 

raft  upon  the  sea. 

Old  story-books  !    old  story-books !  I 

doubt  if  "  Reason's  feast  " 
Provides   a   dish   that   pleases    more 
than  "  Beauty  and  the  Beast ;" 


I  doubt  if  all  the  ledger-leaves  that 

bear  a  sterling  sum 
Yield  happiness  like  those  that  told 

of  "  Master  Horner's  plum." 
Old   story-books !  old   story-books !  I 

never  pass  ye  by 
Without  a  sort  of  furtive  glance — right 

loving,  though  'tis  sly  ; 
And  fair  suspicion  may  arise  that  yet 

my  spirit  grieves 
For    dear    "Old    Mother    Hubbard's 

Dog  "  and  "  Ali  Baba's  Thieves." 

Eliza  Cook. 

THE  WONDERFUL  HOUSE. 

A  wonderful  house  is  Little-doll  Hall, 
With  toys  and  dollies,  and  sweetmeats, 

and  all ; 
Up  in  the  attic,  a  goodly  show, 
There  are  three  lady-dolls,  all    in  a 

row. 

Old  Mother  Hubbard  and  old  Dame 
Trot 

Are  busy  a-washing  the  linen  ; 
And  Princess  Prettypet,  down  below, 

Sits  in  the  garden  spinning  ; 
Behind,  the  Maid,  a  very  old  maid, 

Is  carrying  out  the  clothes  : 
I  don't  know  if   there's  a  blackbird 
near 

Prepared  to  snap  off  her  nose ; 
And  there  stands  the  little  maid  by 
the  well, 

And  a  little  doll  sits  on  the  brink  ; 
Her  name  is  Belinda  Dorothy  Ann, 

And  that's  a  fine  name,  I  think  ! 
A  little  bird  sits  on  the  garden  pale, 

And  his  voice  is  clear  and  good, — 
He's  one  of  the  robins  who  covered  up, 
With  leaves  of  the  berries  on  which 
they  did  sup, 

The  Children  in  the  Wood. 


424 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF    POETRY. 


Jack  Sprat  lives  there  also,  and  Hop- 
o'-my-Thumb, 
And  Jack  the  Giant-killer, 
And   Humpty-Dumpty   and  Puss   in 
Boots, 
Likewise  the  Jolly  Miller ; 
The  White  Cat  also — she  wanders  about 

On  every  sunshiny  day, 
And  the  saucy  mice  come  creeping  out 

Whenever  that  cat's  away  ! 
And  the  nice  little  man  who  had  a 
small  gun, 
Whose  bullets  were  made  of  lead, 
He  used  to  live  there,  but  is  not  there 
now, 
Because,  poor  fellow !  he's  dead ! 

All  these  might  you  see  as  plain  as 
could  be, 
And  many  a  fairy  wight ; 
But  this   cannot    be,  because — don't 
you  see? —    ' 
They're  every  one  out  of  sight ! 

And  all  that  you  find  there,  children 

and  mother, 
Have  been  in  some  fairy-tale  or  other; 
And  therefore  the  good  little  children 

all 
Are  fond  of  going  to  Little-doll  Hall ; 
And  if  you're  a  good  child,  I  and  you 
On  some  fine  day  will  go  there  too. 

Rhyme  and  Reason. 


THE  SLEEPING  BEAUTY. 
A  king  and  a  queen  had  a  beautiful 

daughter, 
A  sweet  little   babe  I'm   sure  you'd 

have  thought  her; 
And  they  to  her  christening  the  fairies 

invited, 
By   notes   on  pink  paper,  with   gold 

pens  indited. 


The  major-domo  to  the  king  came  and 

said, 
"  Seven    fairies    there    are ;"    and   he 

bowed  his  fat  head. 
"  Ask   all,"  said   the   king,  "  and   let 

none  be  left  out;" 
So  a  herald  was  sent  off  at  once,  I've 

no  doubt. 

A  feast  was  prepared;  seven   fairies 

were  there, 
And  each  a  good  gift  to  the  infant  de- 
clare ; 
Beauty,  and  wit,  and  good  temper  they 

give, 
Riches  and  health,  where'er  she  may 

live. 
But  lo !  there  is  thunder,  and   down 

from  the  skies 
A  big  fiery  dragon  with  lightning-flash 

flies  ; 
A  fairy  dismounts,  who,  howe'er  they 

dissemble, 
Makes  the  whole  court,  the  king,  and 

fair  queen  to  tremble  : 

"  A  meeting  of  fairies,  and  /  unin- 
vited ! 

Not  tamely  will  I  thus  submit  to  be 
slighted ! 

Is  this  your  politeness,  your  cour- 
tesy ? — fie ! 

From  the  prick  of  a  needle  your  baby 
shall  die !" 

"  Not  die,"  said  a  fairy,  "  although  she 
is  harmed ; 

She  only  shall  sleep  for  a  hundred 
years,  charmed." 

Away  went  the  fairies,  some  flying, 
some  leaping, 

And  left  the  whole  court  in  a  passion 
of  weeping. 


426 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


"Our    daughter    shall    learn    music, 

drawing,  and  French ; 
On  Latin,  and  Greek,  and  high  Dutch 

she  shall  trench  ; 
She  shall   dance  like   a  gadfly,   and 

walk  like  a  headle ; 
But  never,  oh  never,  shall  she  touch  a 

needle !" 
Accomplished,  sweet,  lovely,  the  young 

princess  grew, 
When  she  met  a  girl  stitching  the  wood 

going  through ; 
She  borrowed  her  needle,  but  held  it 

so  badly — 
You  see,  she'd  not  learnt — that   she 

scratched  herself  sadly. 

She  shrieked,  and  fell  into  that  long 

fatal  sleep 
The  fairies  foretold,  and  her  bed  had 

to  keep. 
To  sleep  went  her  servants,  and  up 

grew  a  wood, 
And  buried  them  all  for  a  hundred 

years  good. 
We  thus  learn  the  danger  that  comes 

when  we  shirk 
From    teaching   our   daughters   with 

needles  to  work ; 
If  not  handy  and  willing,  mere  learn- 
ing will  steep 
Them    morally    in    a  condition    like 

sleep. 

Well !    the   hundred   years   passed — 

hundred  years  and  a  day — 
When  a  prince  out  a-hunting  came 

riding  that  way  ; 
The  trees,  interwoven  so  long,  opened 

wide ; 
He  entered  the  palace,  and  stood  by 

the  side 


Of  the  princess.     That  moment   she 

opened  her  eyes, 
And  so  long  she  had  slept  that  she 

waked  up  quite  wise. 
"  To  be  useful  we  all  were  intended  I 

find," 
Said  she,  "  and  to  work  I  have  made 

up  my  mind." 

Said  the  prince,  "  What !  so  lovely,  so 

young,  and  so  wise, 
And  here  charmed  in  this  wood !  I  am 

seized  with  surprise ! 
But  see,  all  your  courtiers  and  maidens 

are  waking, 
And  there  is  a  banquet  spread  for  our 

partaking ; 
Your   cooks    are   aroused,   and   your 

minstrels  are  singing, 
And  here  at  your  feet  I  myself  must 

be  flinging ; 
Your  friends  are  all  gone — I  daren't 

leave  you  alone 
In  a  wood ;  pray  come  with  me,  and 

share  crown  and  throne." 

THE  SLEEPING  BEAUTY. 

THE   SLEEPING    PALACE. 

The    varying   year   with    blade   and 
sheaf 
Clothes    and   reclothes   the   happy 
plains  ; 
Here  rests  the  sap  within  the  leaf, 

Here  stays  the  blood  along  the  veins. 

Faint  shadows,  vapors  lightly  curled, 

Faint  murmurs  from  the  meadows 

come, 

Like  hints  and  echoes  from  the  world 

To  spirits  folded  in  the  womb. 

Soft  lustre  bathes  the  range  of  urns 
On  every  slanting  terrace-lawn  j 


OLD    TALES   AMD    BALLADS. 


427 


The  fountain  to  his  place  returns, 
Deep  in  the  garden  lake  withdrawn. 

Here  droops  the  banner  on  the  tower, 
On  the  hall-hearths  the  festal  fires, 

The  peacock  in  his  laurel  bower, 
The  parrot  in  his  gilded  wires. 

Roof-haunting    martins    warm    their 
eggs: 

In  these,  in  those,  the  life  is  stayed. 
The  mantles  from  the  golden  pegs 

Droop  sleepily  :  no  sound  is  made, 
Not  even  of  a  gnat  that  sings. 

More  like  a  picture  seemeth  all 
Than  those  old  portraits  of  old  kings, 

That  watch  the  sleepers  from  the 
wall. 

Here  sits  the  butler  with  a  flask 

Between  his   knees,  half  drained ; 
and  there 
The  wrinkled  steward  at  his  task, 

The  maid-of-honor  blooming  fair ; 
The  page  has  caught  her  hand  in  his: 

Her  lips  are  severed  as  to  speak : 
His  own  are  pouted  to  a  kiss  : 

The  blush  is  fixed  upon  her  cheek. 

Till  all  the  hundred  summers  pass, 

The  beams  that  through  the   oriel 
shine, 
Make  prisms  in  every  carven  glass, 

And  beaker   brimmed   with   noble 
wine. 
Each  baron  at  the  banquet  sleeps, 

Grave  faces  gathered  in  a  ring  : 
His  state  the  king  reposing  keeps  : 

He  must  have  been  a  jovial  king. 

All  round  a  hedge  upshoots,  and  shows 
At  distance  like  a  little  wood ; 

Thorns,  ivies,  woodbine,  mistletoes, 
And  grapes  with   bunches   red   as 
blood ; 


All  creeping  plants  ;  a  wall  of  green 
Close-matted,  burr  and   brake  and 
brier, 

And  glimpsing  over  these,  just  seen, 
High  up,  the  topmost  palace  spire. 

When  will  the  hundred  summers  die, 
And    thought    and  time    be    born 
again, 
And  newer  knowledge,  drawing  nigh, 
Bring  truth  that  sways  the  soul  of 
men? 
Here  all  things  in  their  place  remain, 

As  all  were  orderetl  ages  since. 
Come,  Care  and  Pleasure,  Hope  and 
Pain, 
And  bring  the  fated  fairy  Prince. 

THE    SLEEPING    BEAUTY. 

Year  after  year  unto  her  feet, 

She  lying  on  her  couch  alone, 
Across  the  purple  coverlet, 

The    maiden's   jet-black    hair    has 
grown, 
On  either  side  her  tranced  form 

Forth   streaming  from   a  braid   of 
pearl : 
The  slumbrous  light  is  rich  and  warm, 

And  moves  not  on  the  rounded  curl. 

The  silk  star-broidered  coverlid 

Unto  her  limbs  itself  doth  mould, 
Languidly  ever;  and,  amid 

Her  full  black  ringlets   downward 
rolled, 
Glows  forth  each  softly-shadowed  arm 
With    bracelets    of    the    diamond 
bright : 
Her  constant  beauty  doth  inform 
Stillness  with  love,  and  day  with 
light. 


428 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF    POETRY. 


She  sleeps;    her  breathings   are   not 
heard 
In  palace-chambers  far  apart ; 
The  fragrant  tresses  are  not  stirred, 
That  lie  upon  her  charmed  heart. 
She  sleeps  ;  on  either  hand  upswells 
The     gold-fringed     pillow     lightly 
pressed : 
She    sleeps,   nor    dreams,    but     ever 
dwells 
A  perfect  form  in  perfect  rest. 

THE    ARRIVAL. 

All  precious  things,  discovered  late, 

To  those  that  seek  them  issue  forth, 
For  love  in  sequel  works  with  fate, 

And  draws  the  veil   from   hidden 
worth. 
He  travels  far  from  other  skies, 

His  mantle  glitters  on  the  rocks — 
A  fairy  Prince,  with  joyful  eyes, 

And  lighter-footed  than  the  fox. 

The  bodies  and  the  bones  of  those 

That  strove  in  other  days  to  pass 
Are  withered  in  the  thorny  close, 

Or  scattered  blanching  on  the  grass. 
He  gazes  on  the  silent  dead  : 

"  They    perished    in   their    daring 
deeds." 
This  proverb  flashes  through  his  head : 

"  The  many  fail:  the  one  succeeds." 

He  comes,  scarce  knowing  what  he 
seeks  ; 
He    breaks   the  hedge:    he   enters 
there : 
The  color  flies  into  his  cheeks — 
He  trusts   to   light   on    something 
fair; 
For  all  his  life  the  charm  did  talk 
About  his  path,  and  hover  near 


With  words  of  promise  in  his  walk, 
And  whispered  voices  at  his  ear. 

More  close  and  close  his  footsteps  wind : 

The  magic  music  in  his  heart 
Beats  quick  and  quicker,  till  he  find 

The  quiet  chamber  far  apart. 
His  spirit  flutters  like  a  lark ; 

He  stoops  to  kiss  her  on  his  knee. 
"  Love,  if  thy  tresses  be  so  dark, 

How  dark  those  hidden  eyes  must 
be!" 

THE   REVIVAL. 

A  touch,  a  kiss  !  the  charm  was  snapt. 

There  rose  a  noise  of  striking  clocks, 
And  feet  that  ran  and  doors  that  clapt, 

And    barking    dogs    and    crowing 
cocks ; 
A  fuller  light  illumined  all, 

A   breeze   through   all   the   garden 
swept; 
A  s.udden  hubbub  shook  the  hall, 

And  sixty  feet  the  fountain  leapt. 

The  hedge  broke  in,  the  banner  blew, 
The     butler     drank,    the     steward 
scrawled, 
The  fire  shot  up,  the  martins  flew, 
The  parrot  screamed,  the   peacock 
squalled ; 
The    maid   and   page   renewed   their 

strife, 
The  palace  banged  and  buzzed  and 

clacked, 
And  all  the  long-pent  stream  of  life 
Dashed  downward  in  a  cataract. 

And  last  with  these  the  king  awoke, 
And  in  his  chair  himself  upreared, 

And  yawned,  and  rubbed  his  face,  and 
spoke : 
"  By  holy  rood,  a  royal  beard ! 


OLD    TALES   AND    BALLADS. 


429 


How  say   you?    we   have   slept,  my 
lords. 

My  beard  has  grown  into  my  lap." 
The  barons  swore,  with  many  words, 

'Twas  but  an  after-dinner's  nap. 

"  Pardy !"  returned  the  king,  "  but  still 

My  joints  are  somewhat  stiff  or  so. 
My  lord,  and  shall  we  pass  the  bill 

I  mentioned  half  an  hour  ago?" 
The  chancellor,  sedate  and  vain, 

In  courteous  words  returned  reply, 
But  dallied  with  his  golden  chain, 

And,  smiling,  put  the  question  by. 

THE  DEPARTURE. 

And  on  her  lover's  arm  she  leant, 

And  round  her  waist  she  felt  it  fold, 
And  far  across  the  hills  they  went 

In  that  new  world  which  is  the  old : 
Across  the  hills,  and  far  away 

Beyond  their  utmost  purple  rim, 
And  deep  into  the  dying  day 

The  happy  princess  followed  him. 

"  I'd  sleep  another  hundred  years, 
0  love,  for  such  another  kiss !" 

"  Oh  wake  for  ever,  love !"  she  hears ; 

"0  love,  'twas  such  as  this  and  this." 

And  o'er  them  many  a  sliding  star, 
And  many  a  merry  wind,  was  borne, 

And,  streamed  through  many  a  golden 
bar, 
The  twilight  melted  into  morn. 

"  0  eyes  long  laid  in  happy  sleep  !" 
"  0  happy  sleep,  that  lightly  fled  !" 

"  0  happy  kiss,  that  woke  thy  sleep !" 

"  O   love,  thy   kiss  would   wake   the 
dead !" 

And  o'er  them  many  a  flowing  range 
Of  vapor  buoyed  the  crescent  bark, 

And,  rapt  through  many  a  rosy  change, 
The  twilight  died  into  the  dark. 


"A  hundred  summers!  can  it  be? 

And   whither  goest  thou,  tell    me 
where  ?" 
"  Oh  seek  my  father's  court  with  me, 

For  there  are  greater  wonders  there." 
And  o'er  the  hills,  and  far  away 

Beyond  their  utmost  purple  rim, 
Beyond  the  night,  across  the  day, 

Through  all  the  world,  she  followed 
him. 

Alfred  Tennyson. 


SONG  OF  THE  ELFIN  MILLER. 
Full  merrily  rings  the  millstone  round, 

Full  merrily  rings  the  wheel, 
Full  merrily  gushes  out  the  grist — 

Come,  taste  my  fragrant  meal ! 
As  sends  the  lift  its  snowy  drift, 

So  the  meal  comes  in  a  shower ; 
Work,  fairies,  fast,  for  time  flies  past — 

I  borrowed  the  mill  an  hour. 

The  miller  he's  a  worldly  man, 

And  maun  hae  double  fee ; 
So  draw  the  sluice  of  the  churl's  dam, 

And  let  the  stream  come  free. 
Shout,  fairies,  shout !  see,  gushing  out, 

The  meal  comes  like  a  river ; 
The  top  of  the  grain  on  hill  and  plain 

Is  ours,  and  shall  be  ever. 

One  elf  goes  chasing  the  wild  bat's 
wing, 
And  one  the  white  owl's  horn ; 
One  hunts  the  fox  for  the  white  o'  his 
tail, 
And  we  winna  hae  him  till  morn. 
One  idle  fay,  with  the  glow-worm's 
ray, 
Runs  glimmering  'mong  the  mosses ; 
Another   goes  tramp  wi'   the  will-o'- 
wisp's  lamp, 
To  light  a  lad  to  the  lasses. 


430 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


Oh  haste,  my  brown  elf;  bring  me  corn 

From  bonnie  Blackwood  plains ; 
Go,  gentle  fairy,  bring  me  grain 

From  green  Dalgona  mains ; 
But,  pride  of  a'  at  Closeburn  ha', 

Fair  is  the  corn  and  fatter ; 
Taste,  fairies,  taste  !  a  gallanter  grist 

Has  never  been  wet  with  water. 

Hilloah  !  my  hopper  is  heaped  high; 

Hark  to  the  well-hung  wheels  ! 
They  sing  for  joy ;  the  dusty  roof 

It  clatters  and  it  reels. 
Haste,  elves,  and  turn  yon  mountain- 
burn — 

Bring  streams  that  shine  like  siller; 
The  dam  is  down,  the  moon  sinks  soon, 

And  I  maun  grind  my  miller. 

Ha!  bravely  done,  my  wanton  elves, 

That  is  a  foaming  stream ; 
See  how  the  dust  from  the  mill  flies, 

And  chokes  the  cold  moonbeam. 
Haste,   fairies;    fleet    come    baptized 
feet; 

Come  sack  and  sweep  up  clean, 
And    meet  me    soon,   ere  sinks  the 
moon, 

In  thy  green  vale,  Dalreen. 

Allan  Cunningham. 

ARIEL'S  SONGS, 
i. 
Come  unto  these  yellow  sands, 
And  then  take  hands ; 
Court'sied    when    you    have,    and 

kissed, 
The  wild  waves  whist, — 
Foot  it  featly  here  and  there ; 
And,  sweet  sprites,  the  burden  bear. 
Hark,  hark ! 
Bow-wow. 

The  watch-dogs  bark — 
Bow-ivoiv. 


Hark,  hark !  I  hear 
The  strain  of  strutting  chan- 
ticleer 
Cry  Cock-a-diddle-dow. 

ii. 
Full  fathom  five  thy  father  lies ; 
Of  his  bones  are  coral  made; 
Those  are  pearls  that  were  his  eyes ; 

Nothing  of  him  that  doth  fade 
But  doth  suffer  a  sea-change 
Into  something  rich  and  strange ; 
Sea-nymphs  hourly  ring  his  knell ; 

Ding-dong, 
Hark !  now  I  hear  them — ding,  dong, 
bell! 

in. 
Where  the  bee  sucks,  there  suck  I ; 
In  a  cowslip's  bell  I  lie ; 
There  I  couch  when  owls  do  cry ; 
On  the  bat's  back  I  do  fly 
After  summer  merrily. 
Merrily,  merrily  shall  I  live  now, 
Under  the  blossom  that  hangs  on  the 
bough. 

William  Shakespeare. 

MABEL  ON  MIDSUMMER  DAY. 

NOT   A    TRUE   STORY. 

"  Arise  !  my  maiden  Mabel," 

Her  mother  said :.  "  arise ! 
For  the  golden  sun  of  midsummer 

Is  shining  in  the  skies. 

"  Arise !  my  little  Mabel, 
For  thou  must  speed  away, 

To  wait  upon  thy  grandmother 
This  live-long  summer  day. 

"  And  thou  must  carry  with  thee 

This  wheaten  cake  so  fine, 
This  new-made  pat  of  butter, 

And  this  little  flask  of  wine. 


OLD    TALES   AND    BALLADS. 


431 


11  And  tell  the  dear  old  body 

This  day  I  cannot  come, 
For   the   goodman  .went   out   y ester- 
morn, 

And  he  has  not  come  home. 

"  And  more  than  all  this,  poor  Amy 

Upon  my  knee  doth  lie ; 
I  fear  me  with  this  fever-pain 

The  little  child  will  die. 

"  And  thou  canst  help  thy  grandmoth- 
er ; 

The  table  thou  canst  spread, 
Canst  feed  the  little  dog  and  bird, 

And  thou  canst  make  her  hed. 

"  Canst    go   down    to    the    lonesome 
glen 

To  milk  the  mother-ewe ; 
This  is  the  work,  my  Mabel, 

That  thou  wilt  have  to  do. 

"  And  thou  canst  fetch  the  water 
From  the  Lady-well  hard  by, 

And    thou    canst    gather    from    the 
wood 
The  fagots  brown  and  dry. 

"  But  listen  now,  my  Mabel : 

This  is  Midsummer  Day, 
When  all  the  fairy  people 

From  Elfland  come  away. 

"  And  when  thou  art  in  the  lonesome 
glen, 
Keep  by  the  running  burn, 
And  do  not  pluck  the  strawberry-flow- 
er, 
Nor  break  the  lady-fern. 

"  But  think  not  of  the  fairy-folk. 
Lest  mischief  should  befall ; 


Think  only  of  poor  Amy, 
And  how  thou  lovest  us  all. 

"  Yet  keep  good  heart,  my  Mabel, 

If  thou  the  fairies  see. 
And  give  them  kindly  answer 

If  they  should  speak  to  thee. 

"  And  when  unto  the  fir-wood 
Thou  goest  for  fagots  brown, 

Do  not,  like  idle  children, 
Go  wandering  up  and  down  ; 

"  But  fill  thy  little  apron. 

My  child,  with  earnest  speed  ; 

And  that  thou  break  no  living  bough 
Within  the  wood,  take  heed. 

"  For  they  are  spiteful  brownies 

Who  in  the  wood  abide ; 
So  be  thou  careful,  of  this  thing, 

Lest  evil  should  betide. 

"  But  think  not,  little  Mabel, 
Whilst  thou  art  in  the  wood, 

Of  dwarfish,  wilful  brownies, 
But  of  the  Father  good. 

"  And  when  thou  goest  to  the  spring. 
To  fetch  the  water  thence, 

Do  not  disturb  the  little  stream, 
Lest  this  should  give  offence ; 

"  For  the  queen  of  all  the  fairies 
She  loves  that  water  bright ; 

I've  seen  her  drinking  there,  myself. 
On  many  a  summer  night. 

"  But  she's  a  gracious  lady, 
And  her  thou  need'st  not  fear ; 

Only  disturb  thou  not  the  stream. 
Nor  spill  the  water  clear." 


432 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


"  Now  all  this  I  will  heed,  mother, 

Will  no  word  disobey, 
And  wait  upon  the  grandmother 

The  live-long  summer  day." 

PART   SECOND. 

Away  tripped  little  Mabel, 

With  her  wh eaten  cake  so  fine, 

With  the  new-made  pat  of  butter, 
And  the  little  flask  of  wine. 

And  long  before  the  sun  was  hot 
And  summer  mist  had  cleared, 

Beside  the  good  old  grandmother 
The  willing  child  appeared. 

And  all  her  mother's  message 
She  told  with  right  good  will — 

How  that  the  father  was  away, 
And  the  little  child  was  ill. 

And   then  she  swept  the   hearth  up 
clean, 

And  then  the  table  spread, 
And  next  she  fed  the  dog  and  bird, 

And  then  she  made  the  bed. 

"  And  go  now,"  said  the  grandmother, 
"  Ten  paces  down  the  dell, 

And  bring  in  water  for  the  day — 
Thou  know'st  the  Lady-well." 

The  first  time  that  good  Mabel  went 

Nothing  at  all  saw  she, 
Except  a  bird,  a  sky-blue  bird, 

Upon  a  leafy  tree. 

The  next  time  that  good  Mabel  went 

There  sat  a  lady  bright 
Beside  the  well,  a  lady  small, 

All  clothed  in  green  and  white. 

A  curtsey  low  made  Mabel, 
And  then  she  stooped  to  fill 

Her  pitcher  from  the  sparkling  spring, 
But  no  drop  did  she  spill. 


"  Thou  art  a  handy  maiden," 

The  fairy  lady  said  ; 
"  Thou  hast  not  spilt  a  drop,  nor  yet 

The  fair  stream  troubled. 

"  And  for  this  thing  which  thou  hast 
done, 

Yet  may'st  not  understand, 
I  give  to  thee  a  better  gift 

Than  houses  or  than  land. 

"  Thou   shalt  do  well  whate'er  thou 
dost, 
As  thou  hast  done  this  day — 
Shalt   have   the   will    and   power   to 
please, 
And  shalt  be  loved  alway." 

Thus   having  said,  she  passed  from 
sight, 

And  naught  could  Mabel  see 
But  the  little  bird,  the  sky-blue  bird. 

Upon  the  leafy  tree. 

PART   THIRD. 

"  And  now  go,"  said  the  grandmother, 

"  And  fetch  in  fagots  dry ; 
All  in  the  neighboring  fir-wood, 

Beneath  the  trees  they  lie." 

Away  went  kind,  good  Mabel 

Into  the  fir-wood  near, 
Where  all  the  ground  was  dry  and 
brown, 

And  the  grass  grew  thin  and  sere. 

She  did  not  wander  up  and  down, 
Nor  yet  a  live  branch  pull, 

But  steadily  of  the  fallen  boughs 
She  picked  her  apron  full. 

And  when  the  wildwood  brownies 
Came  sliding  to  her  mind, 


OLD    TALES   AjVD    BALLADS. 


433 


She  drove  them  thence,  as   she  was 
told, 
With     home -thoughts    sweet    and 
kind. 

But  all  the  while  the  brownies 

Within  the  fir-wood  still, 
They  watched  her  how   she   picked 
the  wood, 

And  strove  to  do  no  ill. 

"  And  oh !  but  she  is  small  and  neat !" 
Said  one  ;  "  'twere  shame  to  spite 

A  creature  so  demure  and  meek, 
A  creature  harmless  quite." 

"  Look  only,"  said  another, 
"  At  her  little  gown  of  blue, 

At   her   kerchief    pinned    about   her 
head, 
And  at  her  little  shoe  !" 

"  Oh !  but  she  is  a  comely  child," 
Said  a  third,  "  and  we  will  lay 

A  good-luck  penny  in  her  path 
A  boon  for  her  this  day, 

Seeing  she  broke  no  living  bough, 
No  live  thing  did  affray." 

With  that  the  smallest  penny, 

Of  the  finest  silver  ore, 
Upon  the  dry  and  slippery  path 

Lay  Mabel's  feet  before. 

With  joy  she  picked  the  penny  up, 

The  fair}r  penny  good, 
And  with  her  fagots  dry  and  brown 

Went  wandering  from  the  wood. 

"  Now  she  has  that,"  said  the  brownies, 

"  Let  flax  be  ever  dear, 
Twill   buy  her  clothes   of  the  very 
best 

For  many  and  many  a  year." 

28 


PART   FOURTH. 

"  And  go  now,"  said  the  grandmother, 
"  Since  falling  is  the  dew — 

Go  down  unto  the  lonesome  glen 
And  milk  the  mother-ewe." 

All  down  into  the  lonesome  glen 
Through  copses  thick  and  wild, 

Through  moist,  rank  grass,  by  trickling 
streams, 
Went  on  the  willing  child. 

And  when  she  came  to  the  lonesome 
glen 
She  kept  beside  the  burn, 
And  neither  plucked  the  strawberry- 
flower, 
Nor  broke  the  lady-fern. 

And   while   she   milked   the  mother- 
ewe 

Within  this  lonesome  glen? 
She  wished  that  little  Amy 

Were  strong  and  well  again. 

And   soon  as   she   had  thought  this 
thought, 

She  heard  a  coming  sound, 
As  if  a  thousand  fairy -folk 

Were  gathering  all  around. 

And  then  she  heard  a  little  voice, 

Shrill  as  a  midge's  wing, 
That  spake  aloud :  "  A  human  child 

Is  here,  yet  mark  this  thing ! 

"The  lady-fern  is  all  unbroke, 
The  strawberry-flower  unta'en : 

What  shall  be  done  for  her  who  still 
From  mischief  can  refrain  ?" 

"  Give  her  a  fairy  cake,"  said  one ; 

"  Grant  her  a  wish,"  said  three; 
"  The  latest  wish  that  she  hath  wished," 

Said  all,  "  whate'er  it  be." 


434 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


Kind   Mabel   heard   the  words   they 
spake, 

And  from  the  lonesome  glen 
Unto  the  good  old  grandmother 

Went  gladly  back  again. 

Thus  it  happened  to  Mabel, 

On  that  Midsummer  Day, 
And  these  three  fairy  blessings 

She  took  with  her  away. 

'Tis  good  to  make  all  duty  sweet, 

To  be  alert  and  kind; 
'Tis  good,  like  little  Mabel, 

To  have  a  willing  mind. 

Mary  Howitt. 


MINNA  IN  WONDERLAND. 

Poor  little  Minna!  she  knew,  I  wot, 
The   grief   of  a  motherless  orphan's 

lot- 
That    a    step-dame    cruel,   step-sister 

rude, 
Are  bitterness  worse  than  solitude. 
Anger  and  railing,  malice  and  spite, 
Wearied  and  grieved  her  from  morn 

till  night. 

At  the  door  with  Trulla  she  sat  to  spin, 
While    her    step-dame    bustled    and 

scolded  within ; 
Swiftly  she  labored,  with  fingers  fine, 
While  Trulla  drew  slowly  a  clumsy 

twine, 
Till  the  idle  girl's  spindle  slipped  and 

fell, 
Clattering  down  in  the  old  dry  well. 

"  Minna,"  she  ordered  rudely  then, 
"  Fetch  my  spindle  to  me  again  ; 
Down  in  the  dry  well  quickly  go, 
And  hunt  for  it  there  in  the  stories 
below !" 


Cheerfully,  quickly  the  gentle  maid 
Did  as  her  haughty  sister  bade. 

Down    she    clambered    with    nimble 

tread, 
Found   the   spindle  and   wound   the 

thread ; 
Trulla  looked   down  with  malicious 

grin, 
Shut  the  well-lid,  and   fastened   her 

in; 
There  she  left  her  to  sit  and  weep — 
Darkness     around    her    and    silence 

deep. 

But  a  dim  light  glimmered,  unseen  be- 
fore, 

And  she  saw  in  the  well-side  a  little 
door, 

Narrow  and  low ;  but  she  ventured  in 

Hoping  freedom  that  way  to  win. 

Rocky  and  dark  was  the  passage 
there, 

But  it  spread  to  a  pathway  green  and 
fair. 

High  banks  fenced  it  on  either  edge, 
And  across  towered  a  Bramble  hedge. 
Minna  looked  with  a  sad  dismay 
On  the  thorns  which  bristled  to  bar 

the  way ; 
Then  a  keen  little  rustling  voice  was 

heard, 
Shaping  itself  to  a  spoken  word : 

"  Pass  through  safely,  and  fear  not, 

thou, 
If  thou  shake  no  blossom  and  break 

no  bough." 
Was  it  only  the  branches'  stir, 
Or   did  the  Bramble  hedge  speak  to 

her? 
Softly,  gently,  she  ventured  in, 
And  never  a  prickle  grazed  her  skin. 


OLD    TALES   AMD    BALLADS. 


435 


Thankfully  wondering,  on  went  she      I  Looked  up  with  her  innocent  eyes,  and 

Till  she  came  to  a  broad  green  Apple 
tree. 

Ripe  fruit  dangled  from  every  stem  : 

Hungry  and  thirsty,  she  longed  for 
them. 

Then  a  broad  full  murmur  ran  through 
the  tree 

As  the  boughs  drooped  over  her  ten- 
derly. 


"  Pluck  my  apples  and  rest  in  my 
shade 

Safely,  daughter,"  the  deep  voice  said ; 

"  Pluck  from  my  branches  the  burden- 
ing fruit, 

Pile  them  neatly  about  my  root." 

Gratefully  Minna  made  haste  to  obey, 


said, 
"  Good  dame,  will  you  hire  a  servant- 
maid?" 

"  You !"  said  the  beldame ;  "  what  work 

can  you  do?" 
"Whatever,  good  madam,  you  wish  me 

to." 
"  That,"  grinned   the  crone,   "  I   will 

quickly  try ;" 
And  she  took  down  a  sieve  from  the 

wall  hard  by : 
"  Take  this  riddle,  and  quickly  bring 
Water  for  supper  from  yonder  spring." 

By  the  spring  the  shadows  spread  broad 
and  cool, 


Gathered,  and  ate,  and  went  her  way.  j  And  wM  flowerg  bloomed  by  the  tran. 

quil  pool; 
Sounded  the  birds'  songs,  clear  and 
glad, 


Farther  on  stood  a  White  Cow,  switch- 
ing her  tail ; 

From  her  horns  hung  a  golden  milk- 
ing-pail. 

"  Come,"  she  called  with  a  friendly 
low, 

"  Milk  me,  maiden,  before  you  go  ; 

Freely  drink  what  you  will,  and  then 

Hang  up  my  golden  pail  again." 

Quickly  she  heeded  the  friendly  Cow, 
Deeply  she  drank  of  the  warm  milk's 
flow ; 


Yet  Minna  sat  silently,  dull  and  sad, 
For  in  this  first  task  she  must  surely 

fail 
With  only  a  sieve  for  a  water-pail. 

The  birds  flew  nearer,  from  bough  to 
bough,  £ 

And  what  is  that  they  are  singing 
now? 

Robin  and  blue-bird,  thrush  and  wren, 


Hung  up  the  pail  when  all  was  done,  '  Chirped  and  sang  it  again  and  again 


Thanked  the  good  creature,  and  jour- 
neyed on, 

Till  she  came  to  a  lonely  valley,  where 
stood 

A  little  brown  cottase  beside  a  wood. 


Each  in  its  fashion  trying  to  say, 

"  Stop  it  with  mud !  stop  it  with  clay  ! 


"  Stop  it  with  mud  and  daub  it  with 
clay, 

And  carry  a  riddleful  away ;" 
Out  from  the  cottage  a  woman  came,      Through  her  love  for  all  living  things 
Ugly  and  wrinkled,  bowed  and  lame;  she  knew 

Her  cunning  eyes  with  an  evil  glow        What  the  kind  little  voices  bade  her 
Peered  at  Minna,  who  curtseyed  low,  do ; 


436 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF  POETRY. 


She  daubed  each  crevice  with  mud 

and  clay, 
Filled  the  vessel,  and  bore  it  away. 

But  the   old   dame   glared  with   her 

blackest  frown 
As    Minna  the   brimming  sieve   laid 

down. 
And  grimly  she  uttered,  "  Well,  I  wot 
This  wisdom  your  own  wit  taught  }rou 

not; 
Be  off  to  the  milking-stable  now  ; 
Neatly  clean  it,  and  milk  the  cow." 

By  an  empty  manger  an  old  cow  stood, 
Meekly  and  patiently  chewing  the  cud ; 
"Poor   Brindle!"  said   Minna,  "you 

must  be  fed 
Or  ever  I  clean  the  milking-shed." 
She  plucked   from   the   meadow  the 

grasses  deep, 
And   piled   for   Brindle  the   fragrant 

heap. 

Then  she  busily  strove,  with  fork  and 

broom, 
To  clear  the  floor  of  the  littered  room, 
But  the  faster  she  labored  her  work  to 

ft  d0' 

Deeper  and  deeper  the  litter  grew ; 

First  to  her  ankle,  then  to  her  knee, 
Till  Minna  stood  frightened  the  sight 
to  see. 

Softly  lowing,  old  Brindle  raised  her 

head  : 
"  Turn  them ;  turn  them ;  turn  them," 

she  said. 
Loving  of  heart  and  quick  of  wit, 
Minna  soon  guessed  what  was  meant 

by  it ; 
She  turned  the  besom,  she  turned  the 

fork, 
And  quickly,  easily  finished  the  work. 


And   soon  to  her  mistress  her  light 

steps  run 
To  tell  that  her  second  task  is  done ; 
But  the   crone   sprang  fiercely    from 

where  she  sat — 
"  "Witch  that  you  are,  who  taught  you 

that? 
Off  from  my  dwelling  at  once,"  quoth 

she, 
"  Or  you'll  rue  the  hour  you  came  to  me! 

"  But  stay.      By  all  earthly  rules ,  I 

know, 
You  must  have  your  wages  before  you 

go. 
In  one   of  these   caskets  you'll    find 

your  due  ; 
Which  do  you  choose,  the  red  or  the 

blue?" 
She  spoke,  and  watched  with  a  crafty 

look 
To  see  which  casket  the  maiden  took. 

Bright  shone  the  red  in  its  glitter  and 

hue, 
But  paler  and  plainer  the  sober  blue. 
She  turned  to  the  red,  but  paused  in 

doubt, 
For   a  word    of   warning   was   heard 

without. 
The  Cock  crowed   loudly  beside  the 

door, 
And  "  Choose  the  blu-u-e !"  was  the 

sound  it  bore. 

She  trusted  the  warning  kind  and  true, 

Left  the  red  casket  and  took  the  blue. 

Scowling,  the  old  witch  saw  her  go  ; 

"  She  shall  not  keep  it,"  she  muttered 
low. 

"  Safe  with  that  casket  held  in  her 
hand, 

She  never  shall  pass  through  Wonder- 
land." 


OLD    TALES   AND    BALLADS. 


437 


Ik-TV---'-    ■  - ' 


As  Minna  ran  on  she  paused  in  fear, 
For  she  felt  that  some  evil  thing  drew 

near. 
She  looked  for  a  helper,  nor  looked  in 

vain. 
For  the  "White  Cow  stood  by  her  path 

again. 
"  Come  hither,"  it  called,  "  and  have 

no  fear ; 
She  shall  not  harm  you  while  I  am 

here." 

Low  in  the  shadow  she  crouched,  to 

hide 
By  the  kindly  creature's  sheltering  side, 
As   up   the   pathway   the   old   witch 

came, 
Eagerly  asking,  with  eyes  aflame, 


"  Which  way  went  the  girl  who  has 

just  passed  by?" 
"  None    has    passed,"   was   the   calm 

reply. 

"  Tell  me,  then,  for  you  surely 
know, 

What  other  path  could  the  maiden 
go  ?" 

"  Nay,  ask  for  help  from  some  evil 
hand. 

And  not  from  the  creatures  of  Wonder- 
land." 

Baffled  and  angry,  the  witch  turned 
back, 

And  Minna  sped  on  her  homeward 
track. 


438 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


But  soon,  as  she  followed  the  broad 

green  path, 
She  heard  in  the  distance  a  scream  of 

wrath. 
"  She  is  on  my  track,"  cried  the  maiden 

then, 
"  And  where    shall   I   look   for   help 

again  ?" 
Dark   green    branches   drooped   over 

her  head ; 
"  I   will    help   thee,"  the   Apple  tree 

said. 

Thick  boughs  stooped  till  they  reached 
the  ground, 

Closely  they  wrapped  the  maiden 
round  ; 

Hid  in  their  shelter,  she  heard  her 
foe 

Asking  the  Tree  which  way  to  go. 

"  From  my  topmost  branches,"  mur- 
mured the  Tree, 

"  I  look,  but  the  maiden  I  cannot 
see." 

So  evil  of  heart,  but  so  dull  of  brain, 
Baffled,   she    turned    from    the  path 

again. 
But  not  in  safety  might  Minna  stand 
Till  she  crossed  the  borders  of  Won- 
derland. 
Again  came  the  witch   on  her  path, 

fast,  fast ! 
But  the  Bramble  hedge  she  had  reached 
at  last. 

Back  from  her  path  bent  each  bris- 
tling stem, 

Making  a  way  to  pass  through  them  ; 

Then  clashed  together  the  thorn-points 
keen, 

So  that  no  creature  could  pass  be- 
tween. 


And  the   angry    witch,  as   she   eyed 

them,  knew 
That  the  maiden  was  safe — and  the 

casket,  too. 

But  Minna  rushed  through  the  narrow 

dell, 
Crept  through  the  doorway  into  the 

well, 
Fancying,  even  in  that  dark  den, 
That  she  heard  the  foe  on  her  track 

again ; 
But  the  well-lid  was  open,  and  soon, 

once  more, 
She  stood  by  her  step-m other's  open 

door. 

But,    alas !    instead   of   a   welcoming 

word 
Angry  reproaches  were  all  she  heard, 
Till  the  mother's  scolding  and  Trulla's 

jeers 
Forced  from  Minna  the  silent  tears. 
Cried  her  step-dame,  "  No  longer  this 

girl  I'll  brook  ! 
I  hate  the  sight  of  her  whining  look ! 

"  Go  spin  your  task,  since  in  idle 
play 

You  have  wasted  so  many  hours  to- 
day : 

In  the  empty  hut  where  the  swine 
were  fed 

Go  work  with  your  spindle  and  make 
your  bed." 

"  At  least,"  thought  the  maid,  "  I  shall 
there  be  free 

From  the  bitter  railings  that  harass 
me." 

In  the  dark  low  hut  where  the  swine 

once  fed 
She  drew  from  her  distaff  the  shining 

thread, 


OLD    TALES   AND    BALLADS. 


439 


And  still,  as  it  twirled  in  her  nimble  |  The  glow  of  sunset  was  fading  fast 

hand,  As  she  opened  the  casket's  lid  at  last, 

She  thought  of  the  marvels  of  Won-  i  But  a  light  flashed  out  through  the 

derland.  evening  gloom 

"When  my  task  is  done  I  will  look,"  i  And  brightened  the  walls  of  her  nar- 

quoth  she,  row  room, 

"  In  the  casket  the  old  dame  gave  to  '  And  a  troop  of  wonderful  figures  pour 

me."  ,  From  the  open  lid  to  the  earthen  floor. 


3V 


Tiny  footmen  with  fairy  grace 

Begin     to     furnish     and     deck     the 

place ; 
Carpets     where     wonderful     flowers 

glow 
Cover  the  cold  bare  earth  below ; 
Windows     open    where     walls     had 

been, 
To  let  the  light  of  the  sunset  in. 


I  Curtains  are  hung  with  skilful  hand ; 
I  Chairs  and  tables  in  order  stand ; 
A  cook  with  white  apron,  round  as  a 
pot, 
i  Sets    a   dainty    supper    all    smoking 
hot; 
A  brisk  little  maid  brings  garments 

fair, 
Dresses  Minna  and  decks  her  hair. 


440 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF    POETRY. 


Now,  the  step-dame,  knowing  she  must 

be  fed, 
Sent    her   for   supper   some   mouldy 

bread, 
And    at    Trulla's    coming    the   fairy 

train 
Into  the  casket  sprang  again. 
In  the  door   stood   the   girl,   with   a 

stupid  stare, 
Gaping  round  on  the  wonders  there. 

Loud  to  her  mother  did  Trulla  bawl, 

Who  came  with  speed  at  her  daugh- 
ter's call. 

With  envy  and  anger  and  spite  she 
burned 

To  see  the  sty  to  a  palace  turned ; 

But  she  saw  the  casket  and  guessed 
right  well 

What  was  the  source  of  the  magic 
spell. 

With  a  glare  like  an  evil  beast  of  prey 
She   strove   to   seize    and   to   bear   it 

away, 
But  soon,  with  a  scream  of  fright  and 

pain, 
She  dropped  the  casket  to  earth  again, 
With    a    fiery  scar   on    the    thievish 

hand 
Which  had  clutched  the  treasure  from 

Wonderland. 

Then,   forced  to  loosen   her  covetous 

hold, 
She   listened  while  Minna  her  story 

told ; 
Then  vowed  that  Trulla  should  straight 

be  sent 
The  selfsame  way  that  her  sister  went — 
Should   serve   the  witch  in   a  better 

way, 
And  bring  back  treasures  more  rich 

and  gay. 


1  And  so,  on  the  morrow,  with  grunt 
and  frown, 

Trulla  went  clumsily  clambering 
down ; 

Found  in  the  well-side  the  little  door, 

Even  as  Minna  had  done  before  ; 

Passed  through  the  narrow  and  rocky 
ledge, 

And  came  to  the  path  and  the  Bram- 
ble hedge. 

Her   dull   ear   heard   not   the    small 

voice  keen 
That  shrilled  and  quivered  the  thorns 

between ; 
Rudely  she  burst  through  the  boughs 

with  speed, 
Scowling  at  scratches  which  made  her 

bleed ; 
Branches  and  blossoms  broken  lay 
Scattered  around  as  she  went  her  way. 

In  the  Apple  tree's  shadow  she  paused, 

indeed, 
But  took  of  its  kindly  words  no  heed. 
The  apples  she  pelted  with  stick  and 

stone. 
Till  with  fruit  and  branches  the  ground 

was  strewn ; 
Greedily  ate,  and  then  went  on 
Till  she  came  where  the  White  Cow 

stood  alone. 

Though  not  for  the  creature's  asking, 

still 
She  milked,  and  drank  from  the  pail 

her  fill ; 
Threw   the  gold  milk-pail  clattering 

down, 
And   went   her   way   to    the    cottage 

brown ; 
Met    the   witch   in    the    pine-wood's 

shade, 
And  offered  herself  for  a  serving-maid. 


OLD    TALES   AXD    BALLADS. 


441 


"Another?"  the   old  crone   muttered    Scowling,    her    mistress    called     her 


low : 


"  Dunce  ;" 


"  Shall  I  try  her  also,  or  bid  her  go?"     Fiercely  she  bade  her  begone  at  once; 
Yet  she  gave  her  the  sieve,  and  bade  i  But  Trulla  sullenly  answered,  "  No : 


her  bring 
Water  in  that  from  the  forest  spring. 


I   will   have   my  wages,  or   will   not 
so." 


And    Trulla   went,   with    a   stare   of     "  Then  look,"  said  the  witch,  "on  these 


doubt, 


caskets  two, 


In  the  pathway  her  mistress  pointed    And  choose  for  your  wages  the  Red 


out. 


or  the  Blue." 


She  dipped  in  vain,  for  she  would  not    "  Choose  the  Blue  !"  crowed  the  Cock 


hear 


without, 


The  words  which  the  birds  sang  loud    But    not  a   moment    she   paused   in 

and  clear.  doubt ; 

From  the  bank  beside  her  she  plucked    The  glittering  scarlet  caught  her  eye, 


And  she  seized  the  Red  casket  greed- 
ily ; 

She  gave  no  thanks  and  she  made  no 
stay, 


a  stone 
And  threw  it  with  force  at  the  nearest 

one. 

"A  tit-bit  rare  would  that  fellow  be, 

Roasted  for   supper  to-night,"  quoth    But  ran  from  the  cottage-door  away. 

•       she. 

The  old  woman  grinned,  saying,  "  \  es, 

She  failed,  but  the  evil  wishes  remain  begone, 

To  harden  her  heart  and  to  dull  her  And   take  the  wages   you  well   have 

brain.  won." 

Lazily  lounging  along  the  track, 


No  one  followed  on  Trulla's  track ; 


She  carried  the  empty  riddle  back  ;        None  sought  to  tempt  or  to  drag  her 

back ; 
For  evil  and  foul  was  the  thing  she 

bore, 
As  the  evil  heart  that  she  had  before. 


The  old  woman  muttered  and,  shook 

her  head, 
But  sent   her  to   clean   the   milking- 

shed. 


She  lifted  the  fork,  and  the  besom  too,    But   at    least   on   her   way   she   was 


But  stopped  when  the  litter  deeper 
grew. 

To  turn  them  her  wits  were  far  too 
slow. 

And  she  listened  not  to  old  Brindle's 
low, 

But  left  her  standing,  untended,  un- 
fed, 

And  hastened  away  from  the  milking- 
shed. 


made  to  feel 

The  weight  of  the  White  Cow's  spurn- 
ing heel ; 

From  the  Apple  tree  fell  on  her  head 
a  stone 

Which  she  herself  in  the  boughs  had 
thrown  ; 

In  the  Bramble  hedge  she  was  pierced 
and  torn 

By  the  point  of  every  vengeful  thorn. 


442 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


But  little  she  thought  of  her  toil  and 

pain 
As   she   clambered    out   of    the   well 

again, 
And  proudly  paused  in  the  open  door 
To  show  to  her  mother  the  prize  she 

bore  ; 
And  quickly  they  opened,  with  eager 

hand, 
The  magic  treasure  from  Wonderland. 

Not  light,  but  a  stifling  vapor,  spreads, 
Curling  blackly,  about  their  heads ! 
No  fairy  servants  spring  gayly  out, 
But  venomous  reptiles  writhe  about ! 
No  magic  carpets  bedeck  their  floor, 
But  over  it  mud  and  foulness  pour  ! 

They  strive,  in  their  wrath,  and  fright, 

and  pain, 
To  shut  the  Red  casket,  but  all  in  vain ; 
And  then  to  Minna  in  rage  they  run, 
Reproaching  her  with   the   mischief 

done ; 
From  her  shelter  they  bade  her  quick 

begone, 
And  they  cast  her  out  as  the  night 

came  on. 

In  the  forest's  wide  and  dreary  shade 
Homeless  wandered  the  gentle  maid  ; 
But  a  Prince,  with  his  train  and  torches 

bright, 
Coming  late  from  the  hunt  that  night, 
Met  her  and  helped  her,  showing  her 

grace 
For  the  love  of  her  fair  and  innocent 

face. 

But  a  deeper  love  in  his  heart  soon 
grew 

As  he  learned  her  goodness  and  wis- 
dom too, 


Till  Minna  sat  by  the  Prince's  side, 
Hailed  by  the  people,  his  happy  bride  ; 
And  poor  and  mean  the  maiden  was 

not, 
Since  to  own  the  Blue  casket  was  still 

her  lot. 

But  what  was  the  fate  of  the  wicked 

pair 
Whom    Minna    left    in    the    cottage 

there  ? 
The  lot  must  be  hard  of  those  who 

would 
Choose  the  evil  and  hate  the  good ; 
Without,  as  within  them,  trouble  and 

strife — 
For  "  Out  of  the  heart  are  the  issues 

of  life."       ' 

M.  C.  Pyle. 

ROLAND  AND  HIS  FRIEND. 

Friendless  and  poor,  but  with  heart 

content, 
Young  Roland  on  through  the  wide 

world  went. 

Through  a  gloomy  wood,  in  an  un- 
known way, 

Seeking  his  fortune,  he  passed  one 
day. 

Through  its  sombre  shades,  as  he  strode 

along, 
His   clear   voice   rang   in   a   cheerful 

song : 

"  The  storms  may  beat  and  the  rains 

may  fall, 
But  the  dear   Lord's   mercv   is   over 

all." 

"Well  sung!"  spoke  a  voice   in   his 

startled  ear: 
"  Do   you   sing  so   loudly  to  banish 

fear?" 


OLD    TALES   AND    BALLADS. 


443 


Dark  as  a  shadow,  evil-eyed, 

A  stranger  stalked  at  the  stripling's  side. 


Again,  as  he  wandered  to  and  fro, 

He   heard,  or  fancied,  that  groan  of 

woe. 
Harshly  he  laughed,  then  spoke  again : 

"You   have   wandered   far  from   the    "I  must  find  that  mourner  and  succor 


haunts  of  men  : 

"  Strange  chance,  to  find  in  this  whole 

wood  through 
A  friend  to  guide  and  to  shelter  you ! 

"  Here  in  the  forest  alone  I  dwell : 
Come  serve  me,  youth,  for  I  like  you 
well." 

Freely  young  Roland  gave  consent, 
And  on  by  the  stranger's  side  he  went. 

Deeper  and  darker  grew  the  wood  : 
In  its  thickest  shadows  a  castle  stood. 

Gloomy  and  still  as  a  prison-cell, 
It  seemed  but  an  evil  place  to  dwell. 

Yet  there  did  Roland  cheerfully  stay, 
Serving  his  Master  day  by  day. 

But  sometimes,  he  fancied,  a  hollow 

groan 
Thrilled  through  the  hall  where  they 

dwelt  alone ; 

And  he  longed  from  his  inmost  heart 

to  go 
Seeking  the  one  who  suffered  so. 

But  ever  the  eyes  of  his  gloomy  lord 


give, 
Said  Roland,  "  whether  I  die  or  live.'5 

Through   a  narrow  door  of  iron   he 

passed 
To  another  chamber  still  and  vast. 

High  on  the  wall,  on  a  golden  nail, 
Hung  a  saddle,  a  sword,  and  a  coat-of- 
mail. 

Nothing  further  to  aid  his  task 
But    a    stone,   a   rod,   and    a   water- 
flask. 

In  the  next  room  nothing  his  keen 

glance  spied 
But  a  brazen  caldron,  deep  and  wide. 

But   beyond  that  room,  through    an 

open  door, 
Came  sounding  the  hollow  groan  once 

more. 

Quick  to  the  chamber  hastened  he 
To   succor  and   save,   if    that   might 
be ; 

But  he  found  no  man,  as  his  thought 
had  been, 


Watched  every  motion  and  look  and    But  a  noble  black  horse  stabled  with- 


word. 


in. 


And  ever  he  warned  him:  "Dare  to  spy    No  hay,  nor  barley,  nor  wholesome 


In .  my  secret  chambers,  that  day  you 
die." 


food, 
But  glowing-  coals  in  his  manger  stood. 


But  one  morning  the  Master  journeyed    Ever  he  strained  with  bloodshot  eye 


away, 
Leaving  Roland  alone  that  day. 


For  the  water,  which  out  of  reach  did 
lie— 


444 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


Strove  and  strained  at  his  iron  chain, 
Then  back  recoiled  with  a  groan  -of 
pain. 


He  sought  the  caldron,  nor  paused  in 
dread 

Till  the  waters  closed  o'er  his  plung- 
ing head — 


Quickly  did  Roland  forward  dart, 

While  pity  and  anger  swelled  his  heart.  I  Dark,  bitter  waters,  that  caught  his 


He  wrenched  the  curb  from  the  horse's 
head, 

And  quenched  and  scattered  the  em- 
bers red ; 

He  gave  him  water  and  food  beside  ; 
He  stroked  and  patted  his  glossy  side. 

"  Oh,  bonny  black  charger  !  you  shall 

be  free, 
If  I  die  for  the  deed  that  I  do,"  quoth 

he. 

The  eyes  of  the  creature  met  his 
own, 

And  the  brute  mouth  spoke  in  a  hu- 
man tone. 

It   said :   "  For  the  saving  help  you 

give, 
Surely  you  shall  not  die,  but  live. 

"  Bring  hither  the  armor,  the  saddle, 

and  sword, 
From  the  chamber  there  where  they 

wait  their  lord. 

"  It  may   be   your  stripling  strength 

may  fail 
To  wield  the  sword  and  to  wear  the 

mail ; 

"  Then  bathe  in  the  caldron,  and  you 

shall  find 
Your  arm  is  strong  as  your  heart  is 

kind." 

He  could  not  lift  from  the  golden  nail 
The  mighty  sword  and  the  heavy  mail. 


breath, 
And  chilled  his  heart  like  the  touch 
of  death. 

But  when  from  the  depths  he  sprang 

again, 
His     strength    was    more    than    the 

strength  of  ten. 

Higher  and  fairer  rose  his  head, 
Freer  and  nobler  his  stately  tread. 

He  girded  the  armor  to  breast  and 

thigh, 
He  brandished  the  shining  sword  on 

high. 

He  saddled  and  bridled  the  black 
horse  well, 

And  brought  him  forth  from  his  pris- 
on-cell. 

"  Take  the  rod,  the  flask,  and  the  stone,'r 

said  the  steed ; 
"  They  will  serve  us  well  in  our  time 

of  need." 

Then  swiftly  with  Roland  he  galloped 

on, 
For  the  daylight  hours  were  almost 

gone. 

Then  far  behind  them  they  heard  a  yell, 
Savage  and  loud,  through  the  forest 
swell. 

"  'Tis  the  foe  on  our  track,"  spoke  the 
flying  steed ; 

"  If  he  reach  us  now,  we  are  lost  in- 
deed. 


OLD    TALES   AND    BALLADS. 


445 


"  Now  turn,  and  behind  thee  cast  the  j  Then   with   mighty    spells   must  the 
stone —  Wicked  One 


Its   power  to   help  us   will   soon   be 
shown." 

He  threw  the  stone,  and  a  mountain 

high 
dwelled  up  in  the  path  they  had  just 

passed  by. 


Burrow  a  way  through  the  magic  stone. 

Faster  the  two  friends  onward  flew, 
But  fast  came  the  evil  Master  too. 

"  Now  throw  the  rod,  that  a  thicket 

may  grow 
To  bar  the  path  from  the  coming  foe." 


Up     sprang     the     thicket,     stem     to  I  When  near  them  again  he  followed  on 
stem.  In  the  east  was  breaking  the  light  of 


Thorny  and  close,  to  shelter  them. 


dawn. 


Then  long  must  the  Master  labor  to  !  "  Courage !"  the   black  horse  uttered 

hew  then ; 

By  the  might   of  magic    a  passage  |  "  When  the  sun  shall  rise  we  are  safe 

through.  1  again. 


446 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


"Now  empty  the  water  behind  us,  but 

see 
That  none  of  the  drops  shall  sprinkle 

me." 

Hastily  Roland  fulfilled  his  task, 
But  his  strong  hand  shattered  the  crys- 
tal flask. 

He  poured  the  water  along  their  track, 
But  three  drops  fell  on  the  charger's 
back. 

A  lake  swelled  round  them  with  rush 

and  roar, 
Checking  the  foe  on  its  farther  shore, 

But  rider  and  horse  in  its  waters  swim, 
Because  of  the  drops  which  sprinkled 
him. 

At  the  spell  of  the  Master  the  waves 

ebb  fast, 
But  the  light  of  morning  beams  full 

at  last. 

The  level  rays  of  the  rising  sun 
Dissolved  the  spells  of  the  Evil  One, 

And  back,  with  a  yell  of  wrath  and  pain, 
He  turned  to  his  own  abode  again. 

On  the  forest  border  stood  Roland, 
freed, 

With  his  arm  on  the  neck  of  his  res- 
cued steed. 

Down  sloped  before  them  a  meadow 

fair, 
And  the  roofs  of  a  palace  glittered 

there. 

Said  the  black  horse,  "  Roland,  that 

palace  see ; 
It  is  there  that  thv  future  home  must 

be. 


"  Put  by  thy  armor  and  sword  so  keen, 
And    dress    thyself    like    a    peasant 
mean. 

"  Lowly  and  poor,  in  the  palace  stay, 
And  serve  the  King  in  some  humble 
way. 

"  Thy  armor,  thy  sword,  and  thy  faith- 
ful steed 

Shall  be  ready  here  for  thy  time  of 
need — 

"  The  time  foreseen  since  my  woes 
began, 

When  the  Hour  for  help  needs  a  help- 
ing man." 

Then  Roland  went,  like  a  beggar  clad, 
To  serve  the  King  as  a  gardener-lad, 

Besmirched  with  mould  like  a  sordid 

mask, 
His  bright  head  bent  to  his  homely 

task. 

The  rose-garden  under  a  window  lay, 
Whence  the  King's  young  daughter 
looked  down  each  day. 

Fair  bloomed  the  roses  on  every  stem, 
But  fairer  the  face  bent  down  to  them. 

Looking  on  Roland,  her  calm  bright 

eyes 
Saw  the  true  man  through  the  mean 

disguise ; 

And  ever  did  Roland  in  silence  glow 
With  love  for  the  lady  who  watched 
him  so. 

"  Our   goodliest  knights  by  his   side 

were  dim," 
The  Princess  thought  as  she  looked 

on  him. 


OLD    TALES   AND    BALLADS. 


447 


Thought  Roland,  "  Gladly  my  life  I'd 

stake 
To  strive  in  the  battle  for  her  dear 

sake." 


And    she    answered,    "  Go,    and   this 

token  take, 
And  fight  for  mine  and  for  honor's 

sake." 


And  while  he  paused  for  such  a  lot       j  He  left  the  palace,  he  ran  with  speed 
The  Hour  was  near,  though  he  knew  j  To  claim  his  armor,  his  sword,  and 


it  not. 


steed. 


From  the  east  and  the  west,  on  either  I  Bounding  to  meet  him  the  black  horse 


hand, 
An  army  came  pouring  into  the  land. 

Into  the  kingdom's  heart  they  came, 
Marking  their  passage  with  blood  and 
flame. 

The  King  must  hasten  to  gather  his 

host, 
Or  crown  and  kingdom  Avill  both  be 

lost, 


Then  the  sound  of  arming,  the  voice 

SwelledXough  the  country  near  and    And  weU  did  the  horse  and  the  rider 


came, 
With  widespread  nostril   and  eye  of 
flame. 

"  Arm,  Roland,  and  mount,  and  ride  !" 

cried  he, 
"  For  the  Hour  has  come  for  thee  and 

me." 

The   armies  were  met  and  the  fight 

begun, 
When  the  horse  and  his  rider  came 

dashing  on. 


far. 

Only  the  gardener-lad,  unsought. 
Still  with   the  spade   in   the   garden 

wrought ; 

For  they  thought  him  too  mean  and 

vile  a  one 
For  the  knightly  service  that  must  be 

done. 

Still   louder   and  fiercer  swelled    the 

hum, 
And  the  very  day  of  the  fight  had 

come. 


know 
The  face  of  the  one  who  led  the  foe — 

The  evil  Master  whose  wicked  will 
Had  raised  that  army  and  wrought 
that  ill. 

In  the  thick  of  the  battle,  all  un- 
harmed, 

He  sought  the  King,  for  his  life  was 
charmed. 

He  forced  his  way  through  the  guards 
at  length, 

And  smote  at  the  King  with  his  ut- 
most strength. 


Then  he  spoke  to  the  Princess :  "  Bid  ,  But  then,   like   a   thunderbolt    from 


me  so 


above, 


And  join  in  the  battle  against  the  foe."  [  Horse  and  rider  against  him  drove. 


448 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


The  iron  hoofs  and  the  mighty  sword 
Smote  together  with  one  accord. 

Though    guarded    from   wounds    by 

magic  spell, 
Crushed  down  by  their  very  weight 

he  fell. 

The  fight  is  over,  the  rebels  flee, 
The  King's  men  shout  for  their  vic- 
tory; 

But  the  sounds  of  the  jo}rful  tumult 

seem 
To  Roland  only  a  fever-dream. 

His  evil  Master  lay  lifeless  there, 
But  his  horse  had  vanished  like  empty 
air. 

A  young  man  stood  in  the  black  steed's 

place, 
With  a  noble   form   and   a   princely 

grace. 

The  old  King  sat  as  if  turned  to  stone, 
Then  faltered,  "  'Tis  he  !  my  son !  my 

son !" 

For  the  spell  was  broken,  the  Prince 

had  come 
In  his   former   shape   to   his   former 

home, 

And  Roland  and  he,  till  life  shall  end, 
Will  be  to   each   other   brother   and 
friend. 

They  were  brothers  indeed  when  the 

Princess  gave 
Her  hand  to  Roland,the  kind  and  brave, 

Who  had  brought  the  lost  one,  for- 
saken of  men, 
Back  to  his  human  shape  again. 

M.  C  Pyle. 


HETTY  AND  THE  FAIRIES. 

Deak  Hetty  had  read  in   a  curious 
book 
A  wonderful  story  one  night, 

About  the  sweet  fairies  who  come  to 
the  earth 
And  dance  in  the  pale  moonlight — 

Beautiful    creatures,   with   azure-like 
wings, 

Who  hide  in  the  flowers  by  the  wood- 
land springs. 

With  head  full  of  wonder  she  went  to 

her  bed ; 
Not  long  had  dear  Hetty  been  there, 
When  she  opened  her  eyes  and  saw  by 

her  side, 
Scarce  reaching  as  high  as  her  chair, 
A  strange  little  fellow,  all  ribbons  and 

lace, 
Who  bowed  most  politely  and  smiled 

in  her  face. 

"  Ha !   ha  !   pretty  miss,  you've  been 

thinking  of  me, 
So  I've  come  to  say,  How  d'ye  do  ? 
And  ask  your  permission — now  don't 

be  afraid — 
To  show  you  some  things  that  are 

new. 
Pray  get  yourself  ready ;  my  carriage 

and  four, 
My  dearest  Miss  Hetty,  now  wait  at 

the  door." 

So  Hetty  went  off  with  the  carriage 
and  four; 
They  seemed  to  be  flying  away ; 
I  The   strange  little   gentleman  sat  by 
her  side, 
But  never  a  word  did  he  say, 
'  Until  at  a  mansion  high  up  on  a  hill 
|  The   carriage   and   four  little   horses 
stood  still. 


OLD    TALES   RETOLD. 


449 


.  i«. 

4  \ 

•  ;:;:*'?>- =  ^ 

^j 

'4*  ri 


•■  M}T  sweet  little  maiden,  please  follow 
me  straight ; 
This  palace  you  see  is  my  own, 

And  I,  too,  am  king  of  this  wondrous 
realm, 
Where  never  a  mortal  is  known : 

My  subjects  will  think  I'm  commit- 
ting a  sin, 

But  still  you  shall  peep  at  the  won- 
der's within." 

So  he  blew  on  a  horn  that  hung  under 
his  cloak — 
The     doors     of    the    palace    flew 
wide ; 

29 


And  hundreds  and  hundreds  of  queer 

little  folks 
Within  them  dear  Hetty  espied : 
Some  lay  as  if  sleeping,  some  danced 

in  a  ring, 
But  none  of  them  seemed  half  so  tall 

as  the  king. 

"  Now,  pray,  pay  attention,"  the  fairy 
king  said ; 
"  Those  creatures,  so  happy  and  fair. 
Are  just  like  the  good  thoughts  that 
dwell  in  the  heart, 
Flinging    sunshine   around    every- 
where ; 


450 


THE    CHILDREN'S    BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


Wherever  they  are  there  are  brightness 

and  joy, 
No  matter  how  heavy  or  dull  is  the 

sky. 

"  Those  wily  black  fellows  chained  up 
to  the  wall, 
Like  bad  thoughts  we  keep  them 
apart ; 

We  never  give  heed  to  their  slander- 
ous tongues, 
Or  take  them  at  all  to  our  heart. 

The  joy  in  our  bosoms  would  soon  fade 
away 

If  we  were  to   listen   to  aught   they 
would  say. 

"  Now,  Hetty  my  dear,  when  you  go 

back  to  earth, 
You'll  think  of  the  sight  you  have 

seen ; 
Let  Good  be  the  fairy  that  dwells  in 

your  heart, 
And  you  be  his  good  little  queen ; 
And   so    you'll    be    happy — "     But 

here,  with  a  scream, 
Dear  Hetty  woke  up ;  it  was   all   a 

dream ! 

Matthias  Barr. 


THE  FAIRIES  OF  THE  CALDON  LOW. 
A  Midsummer  Legend. 

"And  where  have  you  been,  my  Mary, 
And  where  have  you  been  from  me?" 
""  I've  been  to  the  top  of  the  Caldon 
Low, 

The  midsummer  night  to  see  !" 

""And  what  did  you  see,  my  Mary, 
All  up  on  the  Caldon  Low?" 

"  I  saw  the  glad  sunshine  come  down, 
And  I  saw  the  merry  winds  blow." 


"And  what  did  you  hear,  my  Mary, 
All  up  on  the  Caldon  Hill  ?" 

"  I  heard  the  drops  of  the  water  made, 
And  the  ears  of  the  green  corn  fill." 

"Oh,  tell  me  all,  my  Mary — 
All,  all  that  ever  you  know ; 

For  you  must  have  seen  the  fairies 
Last  night  on  the  Caldon  Low." 

"  Then  take  me  on  your  knee,  mother ; 

And  listen,  mother  of  mine  : 
A  hundred  fairies  danced  last  night, 

And  the  harpers  they  were  nine  ; 

"And  their  harp-strings  rang  so  mer- 
rily 

To  their  dancing  feet  so  small ; 
But  oh,  the  words  of  their  talking 

Were  merrier  far  than  all." 

"  And    what    were    the    words,    my 
Mary, 

That  then  you  heard  them  say  ?" 
"  I'll  tell  you  all,  my  mother ; 

But  let  me  have  my  way. 

"  Some  of  them  played  with  the  water, 
And  rolled  it  down  the  hill ; 

'And  this,'  they  said,  '  shall  speedily 
turn 
The  poor  old  miller's  mill ; 

" '  For  there  has  been  no  water, 
Ever  since  the  first  of  May  ; 

And  a  busy  man  will  the  miller  be 
At  dawning  of  the  day. 

"  '  Oh,  the  miller  !  how  he  will  laugh 
When  he  sees  the  mill-dam  rise ! 

The  jolly  old  miller,  how  he  will  laugh 
Till  the  tears  fill  both  his  eves !' 


OLD    TALES   A.N'D    BALLADS. 


451 


"And  some  they  seized  the  little  winds 
That  sounded  over  the  hill ; 

And  each  put  a  horn  unto  his  mouth, 
And  blew  both  loud  and  shrill ; 

"  'And  there,'  they  said,  '  the  merry 
winds  go 

Away  from  every  horn  ; 
And  they  shall  clear  the  mildew  dank 

From  the  blind  old  widow's  corn. 

"  '  Oh,  the  poor,  blind  widow  ! 

Though  she  has  been  blind  so  long, 
She'll  be  blithe  enough  when  the  mil- 
dew's gone, 

And  the  corn  stands  tall  and  strong.' 

'And   some  they  brought  the  brown 
lintseed, 

And  flung  it  down  from  the  Low  ; 
'And  this,'  they  said,  '  by  the  sunrise 

In  the  weaver's  croft  shall  grow. 

'* '  Oh,  the  poor,  lame  weaver ! 

How  he  will  laugh  outright 
When  he  sees  his  dwindling  flax-field 

All  full  of  flowers  by  night!' 

'And  then  outspoke  a  brownie, 
With  a  long  beard  on  his  chin  ; 

'  I  have  spun  up  all  the  tow,'  said  he, 
'And  I  want  some  more  to  spin. 

"  '  I've  spun  a  piece  of  hempen  cloth, 
And  I  want  to  spin  another ; 

A  little  sheet  for  Mary's  bed, 
And  an  apron  for  her  mother.' 

"  With  that  I  could  not  help  but  laugh, 
And  I  laughed  out  loud  and  free  ; 

And  then  on  the  top   of  the  Caldon 
Low 
There  was  no  one  left  but  me. 

"And  all  on  the  top  of  the  Caldon  Low 
The  mists  were  cold  and  gray, 


And  nothing    I  saw   but   the   mossy 
stones 
That  round  about  me  lay. 

"  But,  coming  down  from  the  hilltop. 

I  heard  afar  below 
How  busy  the  jolly  miller  was, 

And  how  the  wheel  did  go. 

"And  I  peeped  into  the  widow's  field. 

And,  sure  enough,  were  seen 
The  yellow  ears  of  the  mildewed  corn. 

All  standing  stout  and  green. 

"And  down  by  the  weaver's  croft  I  stole, 
To  see  if  the  flax  were  sprung ; 

And  I  met  the  weaver  at  his  gate, 
With  the  good  news  on  his  tongue. 

"  Now  this  is  all  I  heard,  mother, 

And  all  that  I  did  see  ; 
So,  pr'ythee,  make  my  bed,  mother, 

For  I'm  tired  as  I  can  be." 

Mary  Howitt. 


THE  FAIRIES. 
A  Child's  Song. 

Up  the  airy  mountain, 

Down  the  rushy  glen, 
We  daren't  go  a-hunting 

For  fear  of  little  men  ; 
Wee  folk,  good  folk, 

Trooping  all  together ; 
Green  jacket,  red  cap, 

And  white  owl's  feather ! 

Down  along  the  rocky  shore 

Some  make  their  home  ; 
They  live  on  crispy  pancakes 

Of  yellow  tide-foam ; 
Some  in  the  reeds 

Of  the  black  mountain-lake, 
With  frogs  for  their  watch-dogs. 

All  night  awake. 


452 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


High  on  the  hilltop 

The  old  King  sits ; 
He  is  now  so  old  and  gray- 
He's  nigh  lost  his  wits. 
With  a  bridge  of  white  mist 

Columbkill  he  crosses, 
On  his  stately  journeys 

From  Slieveleague  to  Rosses ; 
Or  going  up  with  music 

On  cold  starry  nights, 
To  sup  with  the  Queen 

Of  the  gay  Northern  Lights, 

They  stole  little  Bridget 

For  seven  years  long ; — 
When  she  came  down  again 

Her  friends  were  all  gone. 
They  took  her  lightly  back 

Between  the  night  and  morrow  ; 
They  thought  that  she  was  fast  asleep, 

But  she  was  dead  with  sorrow. 
They  have  kept  her  ever  since 

Deep  within  the  lakes, 
On  a  bed  of  flag-leaves, 

Watching  till  she  wakes. 

By  the  craggy  hillside. 

Through  the  mosses  bare, 
They  have  planted  thorn  trees 

For  pleasure  here  and  there. 
Is  any  man  so  daring 

As  dig  one  up  in  spite, 
He  shall  find  the  thornies  set 

In  his  bed  at  night. 

Up  the  airy  mountain, 

Down  the  rushy  glen. 
We  daren't  go  a-hunting 

For  fear  of  little  men; 
Wee  folk,  good  folk, 

Trooping  all  together ; 
Green  jacket,  red  cap, 

And  white  owl's  feather  ! 

William  Allingham. 


ABOUT  THE  FAIRIES. 
Pray,  where  are  the  little  bluebells 
gone, 
That  lately  bloomed  in  the  wood? 
Why,   the   little    fairies   have    taken 
each  one, 
And  put  it  on  for  a  hood. 

And  where  are  the  pretty  grass-stalks 

gone, 

That  waved  in  the  summer  breeze  ? 

Oh,  the  fairies  have  taken  them  every 

one 

To  plant  in  their  gardens,  like  trees. 

And   where  are  the   great  big   blue- 
bottles gone, 
That  buzzed  in  their  busy  pride  ? 
Oh,  the  fairies  have  caught  them  every 
one, 
And  have  broken  them  in,  to  ride. 

And  they've  taken  the  glow-worms  to 
light  their  halls, 
And   the   crickets  to  sing  them   a 
song, 
And  the  great  red  rose-leaves  to  paper 
their  walls, 
And  they're  feasting  the  whole  night 
long. 

But  when  spring  comes  back  with  its 
mild,  soft  ray, 
And  the  ripple  of  gentle  rain, 
The  fairies   bring  back  what  they've 
taken  away, 
And  give  it  us  all  again. 

Rhyme  and  Reason. 

CINDERELLA. 

You  ask  for  the  story,  my  darling, 
Of  the  beautiful  picture  you  see : 

'Tis  an  old  fairy-tale,  and  I'll  tell  it, 
If  here  you'll  sit  down  by  my  knee. 


OLD    TALES   AND    BALLADS. 


453 


"lis  the  story  of  sweet  Cinderella,  So  one  night,  when  the  mother  and 

And    the    little    glass    slipper    she  sisters 

wore,  Had  forth  to  a  splendid  hall  gone, 

Of  the  hall,  and  the  prince  who  there    And  had  heartlessly  left  Cinderella 
met  her,  To  toil  by  herself  all  alone, 

Of  the  love  to  its  wearer  he  bore. 

This    fairy,    her    friend,   rose    before 
She   was    blest  with   a   dear,   loving  her, 

mother;  And   in   kindest   of  tones,    as.  she 

She  herself  was  a  fond,  loving  child,  j  stood, 

And   in  youth,  in  the  home  of  her    Said,  "  Wouldst  thou  in  the  ball  find 
childhood,  enjoyment  ?" 

Her  life  was  of  sorrow  beguiled.  And     she    eagerly    answered,    "  I 

would." 
But,   alas !    sickness    seized    on  that 

n 

mother,  "  Thou  shalt  go;  but  'tis  only  till  mid- 

And    soon    to   the  grave    she   Avas  night 

borne ;  My  power  has  unlimited  sway  ; 

And  the  poor  sobbing  child   in   be-    So  before  that  hour  shall  be  striking 
reavement  Without  fail  for  thy  home  be  away." 

"Was  left  to  her  sorrow  alone  ; 

Then  the  fairy  a  golden-hued  pump- 
For  soon  to  the  household  her  father  kin 

A  stranger,  his  second  wife,  brought;  l      Transformed  to  a  chariot  of  gold, 
And  she  and  her  two  selfish  daugh-    And  its  wheels,  which  with  jewels  she 
ters  covered, 

For  none  but  themselves  cared  or        Flashed   back  the   bright  light  as 


thought. 


they  rolled. 


So  they  drove  the  poor  child  to  the    From  six  mice  she  made  six  splendid 
kitchen,  coursers, 

Where  her   hands   by  the  cinders        From  a  rat  she  a  driver  supplied ; 
were  soiled ;  Then   some   lizards   she  turned   into 

And  so  "  Cinderella ''  they  called  her,  i  footmen, 

While    for    them    she    constantly  \      Behind  on  the  chariot  to  ride, 
toiled. 

The   plain,   homespun    dress   of    the 
But  a  good  little  fairy  watched  o'er  maiden 

her  She   changed    into   silks   rich    and 

While  toiling  in  sadness  apart,  rare, 

For,  soiled  though  her  hands  were  with    And  with  jewels  of  exquisite  beauty, 
cinders,  And  flowers,  she  adorned  her  dark 

She  true  was,  and  spotless  at  heart,  i  hair. 


OLD    TALES   AJVD    BALLADS. 


455 


Then   swiftly,   past  field,  wood,  and  j  From  province  to  province  they  jour- 
cottage,  neyed, 
The  steeds  proudly  pranced  on  their        But  all  their  inquiries  were  vain, 
way,                                                       Till  at  last  to  the  house  of  our  maiden 

In  the  course  of  their  searchings  they 
came. 


And  bore  the  dear  child  to  the  ball- 
room, 
To  join  there  the  splendid  array. 

And  there  'mid  the  crowds  that  were 
gathered, 
Who  boasted  their  lineage  high, 
Cinderella  eclipsed  all  in  beauty, 

And  shone  as  a  star  in  the  sky. 

And  the  Prince  was  so  charmed  with 
her  graces, 

By  her  modest  demeanor  so  Avon, 
That  he  eagerly  sought,  as  a  treasure, 

To  win  her  at  once  as  his  own. 

But  alas  !  in  the  midst  of  his  wooing, 
Ere  the  clock-stroke  of  midnight  can 
sound, 
From  the  crowd  she  has  quietly  van- 
ished, 
And  at  home  with  the  fairy  is  found. 

But  the  little  glass  slipper,  which,  fly- 
in  O" 

She   drops,   in    her    haste,  on   the 
floor, 
Is  a  clue  to  the  Prince  as  he  trem- 
bles 

In  fear  lest  he  see  her  no  more. 


Here   the   sisters    come    eagerly   for- 
ward, 
Each  anxious  the  slipper  to  try  ; 
But,   though  squeezing  their  feet  to 
the  utmost, 
Their  efforts  its  size  doth  defy. 


"  Let  me  try  it,"  says  sweet  Cinder- 
ella, 
While    the    others    amazed    stand 
round  ; 
She  tries,  and  the  fit  is  found  per- 
fect— 
The  owner  long  sought  for  is  found ! 

When  he  hears  it,  the  Prince  at  once 

hastens 

To  claim  her  in  joy  and  with  pride, 

And  to  share  both  his  heart  and  his 

kingdom 

With  her  as  his  fondly-loved  bride. 

And  now,  though  in  lofty  position, 
She  still  keeps   her  meekness  and 
truth. 

And  never  forgets  the  sad  lessons 
So  bitterlv  learned  in  her  vouth. 


i 
Then   six   nobles   he   speedily  sends  ;  To   her   husband   she  proves   a  rich 

forth,  treasure, 

...  . 

To  search  with  most  diligent  care  More  precious  than  rubies  or  gold — ■ 

In  every  part  of  his  kingdom  I  To   her   subjects   a  queen   that  they 

For  the  one  who  the   slipper  can  i  honor; 

wear.  I      And  now  all  my  story  is  told. 


456 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


THE  BABES  IN  THE  WOOD. 

My  dear,  do  you  know 
How  a  long  time  ago, 

Two  poor  little  children, 
Whose  names  I  don't  know, 
Were  stolen  away 
On  a  fine  summer's  day, 

And  left  in  a  wood, 
As  I've  heard  people  say  ? 

And  when  it  was  night, 
So  sad  was  their  plight, 

The  sun  it  went  down. 
And  the  moon  gave  no  light! 
They  sobbed,  and  they  sighed, 
And  they  bitterly  cried, 

And  the  poor  little  things 
They  lay  down  and  died. 

And  when  they  were  dead. 
The  robins  so  red 

Brought  strawberry-leaves 
And  over  them  spread ; 
And  all  the  day  long,  ' 
They  sang  them  this  song, — 
Poor  babes  in  the  wood ! 
Poor  babes  in  the  wood ! 

And  don't  you  remember 
The  babes  in  the  wood? 


THE  CHILDREN  IN  THE  WOOD. 

Now  ponder  well,  you  parents  dear, 

These  words  which  I  shall  write ; 
A  doleful  story  you  shall  hear, 

In  time  brought  forth  to  light : 
A  gentleman  of  good  account 

In  Norfolk  dwelt  of  late, 
Who  did  in  honor  far  surmount 

Most  men  of  his  estate. 

Sore  sick  he  was,  and  like  to  die, 
No  help  his  life  could  save ; 


His  wife  by  him  as  sick  did  lie, 
And  both  possessed  one  grave. 

No  love  between  these  two  was  lost, 
Each  was  to  other  kind  ; 

In  love  they  lived,  in  love  they  died. 
And  left  two  babes  behind — 


The  one  a  fine  and  pretty  boy, 

Not  passing  three  years  old ; 
The  other  a  girl,  more  young  than  he, 

And  framed  in  beauty's  mould. 
The  father  left  his  little  son, 

As  plainly  doth  appear, 
When  he  to  perfect  age  should  come, 

Three  hundred  pounds  a  year. 


And  to  his  little  daughter  Jane 

Five  hundred  pounds  in  gold, 
To  be  paid  down  on  marriage-day, 

Which  might  not  be  controlled ; 
But  if  the  children  chance  to  die 

Ere  they  to  age  should  come, 
Their    uncle     should     possess     their 
wealth, 

For  so  the  will  did  run. 


"Now,  brother,"  said  the  dying  man, 

"  Look  to  my  children  dear ; 
Be  good  unto  my  boy  and  girl, 

No  friends  else  have  they  here  : 
To  God  and  you  I  recommend 

My  children  dear  this  day  ; 
But  little  while,  be  sure,  we  have 

Within  this  world  to  stay. 

"  You   must  be    father    and    mother 
both, 

And  uncle  all  in  one ; 
God  knows  what  will  become  of  them 

When  I  am  dead  and  gone !" 


OLD    TALES   AND    BALLADS. 


457 


With  that  bespake  their  mother  dear : 
"  Oh,  brother  kind,"  quoth  she, 

"  You  are  the  man  must  bring  our 
babes 
To  wealth  or  misery. 

"  And  if  you  keep  them  carefully, 

Then  God  will  you  reward ; 
But  if  you  otherwise  should  deal, 

God  will  your  deeds  regard." 
With  lips  as  cold  as  any  stone 

They  kissed  their  children  small : 
"  God  bless   you  both,  my    children 
dear!" 

With  that  the  tears  did  fall. 

These    speeches    then    their    brother 
spake 

To  this  sick  couple  there  : 
"  The  keeping  of  your  little  ones, 

Sweet  sister,  do  not  fear  ; 
God  never  prosper  me  nor  mine, 

Nor  aught  else  that  I  have, 
If  I  do  wrong  your  children  dear, 

When  you  are  laid  in  grave." 

Their  parents  being  dead  and  gone, 

The  children  home  he  takes, 
And   brings   them   straight   unto  his 
house, 

Where  much  of  them  he  makes. 
He  had  not  kept  these  pretty  babes 

A  twelvemonth  and  a  day, 
But  for  their  wealth  he  did  devise 

To  make  them  both  away. 

He  bargained  with  two  ruffians  strong, 

Which  were  of  furious  mood. 
That  they  should  take  these  children 
young, 

And  slay  them  in  a  wood. 
He  told  his  wife  an  artful  tale : 

He  would  the  children  send 
To  be  brought  up  in  fair  London 

With  one  that  was  his  friend. 


Away  then  went  those  pretty  babes, 

Rejoicing  at  that  tide — 
Rejoicing  with  a  merry  mind 

They  should  on  cock-horse  ride. 
They  prate  and  prattle  pleasantly, 

As  they  rode  on  the  way, 
To  those  that  should  their  butchers  be 

And  work  their  lives'  decay. 

So  that  the  pretty  speech  they  had 

Made  Murder's  heart  relent, 
And  they  that  undertook  the  deed 

Full  sore  did  now  repent. 
Yet  one  of  them,  more  hard  of  heart. 

Did  vow  to  do  his  charge, 
Because  the  wretch  that  hired  him 

Had  paid  him  very  large. 

The  other  would  not  agree  thereto. 

So  here  they  fell  at  strife ; 
With  one  another  they  did  fight 

About  the  children's  life ; 
And  he  that  was  of  mildest  mood 

Did  slay  the  other  there, 
Within  an  unfrequented  wood ; 

The  babes  did  quake  for  fear. 

He  took  the  children  by  the  hand, 

Tears  standing  in  their  eye, 
And   bade   them   straightway   follow 
him, 

And  look  they  did  not  cry  ; 
And  two  long  miles  he  led  them  on. 

While  they  for  food  complain  : 
"  Stay  here,"  quoth  he,  "  I'll  bring  you 
bread 

When  I  come  back  again." 

These    pretty   babes,   with    hand   in 
hand. 

Went  Avandering  up  and  down  ; 
But  never  more  could  see  the  man 

Approaching  from  the  town. 


458 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


Their  pretty  lips  with  blackberries 
Were  all  besmeared  and  dyed, 

And  when   they   saw   the   darksome 
night 
They  sat  them  down  and  cried. 

Thus  wandered  these  poor  innocents 

Till  death  did  end  their  grief; 
In  one  another's  arms  they  died, 

As  wanting  due  relief. 
No  burial  this  pretty  pair 

Of  any  man  receives, 
Till  Robin  Redbreast  piously 

Did  cover  them  with  leaves. 

And  now  the  heavy  wrath  of  God 

Upon  their  uncle  fell ; 
Yea,    fearful    fiends   did    haunt     his 
house, 

His  conscience  felt  a  hell. 
His  barns  were  fired,  his  goods  con- 
sumed, 

His  lands  were  barren  made ; 
His  cattle  died  within  the  field, 

And  nothing  with  him  stayed. 

And  in  a  voyage  to  Portugal 

Two  of  his  sons  did  die ; 
And,  to  conclude,  himself  was  brought 

To  want  and  misery. 
He  pawned  and  mortgaged  all  his  land 

Ere  seven  years  came  about ; 
And  now  at  length  this  wicked  act 

Did  by  this  means  come  out : 

The  fellow  that  did  take  in  hand 

These  children  for  to  kill 
Was  for  a  robbery  judged  to  die — 

Such  was  God's  blessed  will — 
Who  did  confess  the  very  truth, 

As  here  hath  been  displayed: 
Their  uncle  having  died  in  jail, 

Where  he  for  debt  was  laid. 


You  that  executors  be  made, 

And  overseers  eke, 
Of  children  that  be  fatherless, 

And  infants  mild  and  meek, 
Take  you  example  by  this  thing, 

And  yield  to  each  his  right, 
Lest  God  with  such-like  misery 

Your  wicked  minds  requite. 


ADVENTURES  OF  ROBINSON  CRUSOE. 

Come,  gather  round  me,  little  ones, 

And  hearken  unto  me, 
And  you  shall  hear  a  tale  about 

A  lad  that  went  to  sea — 

About  a  lad  that  ran  away, 

Oh,  many  years  ago, 
And  left  his  home  and  parents  dear — 

Young  Robinson  Crusoe ! 

Now  when  this  lad  grew  up  a  man, 

It  came  about  one  day 
That  he  was  cast  upon  a  rock — 

An  island  far  away  ; 

And  there  to  shield  him  from  the  storm , 
And  keep  him  safe  and  sound, 

He  built  a  house,  and  thatched  it  o'er, 
And  fenced  it  round  and  round. 

Far  off  upon  a  sandy  bank 

His  ship  lay  all  a-wreck ; 
And  oft-times  when  the  sea  was  low 

He  got  upon  the  deck  ; 

For  many  things  he  there  had  found 
That  he  could  bring  ashore 

Upon  the  raft  that  he  had  made, 
And  carry  to  his  store. 

Two  kittens  and  a  faithful  dog, 
With  powder,  guns,  and  shot, 

Three  cheeses  and  a  chest  of  tools, 
'Mong  other  things  he  got. 


OLD    TALES   AND    BALLADS. 


459 


.■id 


\,  UM\lU\ 


And  now  he  bravely  went  to  work, 
Made  tables,  chairs,  and  stools, 

And  shelves  around  his  little  home 
On  which  to  lay  his  tools. 

He  set  a  cross  up  on  the  beach, 
Lest  time  should  go  astray, 

And  with  his  knife  he  cut  a  notch, 
To  mark  each  passing  day. 

He  caught  and  tamed  a  little  kid, 
That  trotted  at  his  heels  ; 

And  with  his  dogs  and  cats  at  home 
It  shared  his  daily  meals. 


Yet  sometimes  he  grew  very  sad, 
And  then  he  sat  him  down 

Upon  the  shore,  and  thought  his  God 
Looked  on  him  with  a  frown. 


And  he  would  gaze  upon  the  sea, 

Across  the  billows  wild, 
And  wring  his  hands  and  cry  aloud, 

And  weep  like  any  child. 

He  thought  upon  his  father's  words  ; 

His  mother's  prayers  and  tears — 
How  they  would  grieve  for  him,  their 
son, 

Away  so  many  years ! 

Then  he  would  fall  upon  his  knees 
And  clasp  his  hands  in  prayer, 

And  ask  his  God,  with  many  tears, 
His  wicked  life  to  spare. 

At  times,  with  gun  upon  his  back. 
He  roamed  the  island  round, 

Where    melons,   grapes,    and    sugar- 
canes 
All  growing  wild  he  found. 


460 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


A  parrot  that  some  years  before 

He  artfully  had  caught, 
Would  hop  upon  his  thumb,  and  shriek 

The  lessons  it  was  taught. 


And  so,  to  keep  it  snug,  he  made 

A  cage  to  put  it  in  : 
And  he  made  a  big  umbrella  too, 

And  all  his  clothes  of  skin. 


I  wot  he  was  the  strangest  sight 

That  ever  you  might  see ; 
In  jacket,  breeches,  cap,  and  shoes, 

A  hairy  man  looked  he. 

With  big  umbrella  o'er  his  head, 
His  sword  hung  at  his  side, 

His  gun  and  axe  upon  his  back, 
He  rambled  far  and  wide. 

Now.  on  the  island  herds  of  goats 
,  Were  running  wild  and  free, 
But  when  he  tried  to  catch  the  things. 
Away  they  all  would  flee. 

And  so,  to  get  them  in  his  power, 
He  dug  pits  in  the  ground  ; 


And  there  one  morn,  at  break  of  day, 
A  goat  and  kids  he  found. 

The  goat  he  let  away  again, 
For  it  was  fierce  and  strong ; 

The  little  kids  he  tied  with  strings 
And  took  with  him  along; 

And  then,  from  running  wild  again 

His  little  flock  to  keep, 
A  piece  of  ground  he  fenced  around, 

Where  they  might  feed  and  sleep. 

His  crops  of  barley  and  of  rice 
Now  rich  and  ripe  had  grown  ; 

For  seeds  he  found  upon  the  wreck 
He  long  ago  had  sown. 


OLD    TALES   AND    BALLADS. 


401 


The  corn  he  pounded  into  meal, 

And  made  it  into  bread ; 
The  rice  he  baked  in  little  cakes, 

At  times  to  eat  instead. 

At  length  he  longed  when  days  were  fine 

Upon  the  waves  to  float ; 
So  with  his  tools  he  went  to  work, 

And  made  a  little  boat. 


He  set  a  mast  and  sail  before, 

A  rudder,  too,  behind  ; 
And  with  his  dog  and  gun  on  board, 

He  sped  before  the  wind. 

One  summer  morning,  as  he  walked 
Abroad,  with  gun  in  hand, 

He  stood  aghast  as  he  beheld 
A  footprint  in  the  sand ! 


Though  many  years  had  passed  away 

Since  to  that  lonely  place 
He  came,  yet  he  had  never  caught 

A  sight  of  human  face. 

He  thought  of  dreadful  savages, 
All  naked,  wild,  and  black, 

And  paused  at  every  step  he  took 
To  look  in  terror  back. 

He  dreamt  about  them  in  the  night, 
And  thought  of  them  by  day ; 


He  scarce  would  stir,lest  they  by  chance 
Should  come  across  his  way. 

At  last  one  day  he  climbed  a  hill, 

Where  oft  he  used  to  lie, 
And  took  with  him  his  telescope, 

To  see  what  he  could  spy. 

And,  looking  off  toward  the  shore, 

A  sight  he  did  behold 
That  set  his  very  hair  on  end, 

And  made  his  blood  run  cold. 


462 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


A  band  of  painted  savages 

He  saw,  to  his  dismay, 
All  dancing  round  a  fire,  on  which 

A  human  body  lay. 

He  saw  them  kill  a  helpless  man, 
And  one  was  standing  by 

All  in  an  agony  of  fear, 
For  he  too  was  to  die. 


But  ere  his  enemies  had  time 

A  hand  on  him  to  lay, 
He  turned  and  bounded  like  a.roe. 

Away — away — away. 

Across  a  stream  he  swam  with  speed. 

Close  followed  by  his  foes ; 
But  he  was  saved  by  our  good  friend, 

The  man  in  hairy  clothes. 


A  young  and  comely  man  he  was, 

So  timid  and  so  shy, 
With  tawny  skin  and  hair  of  jet, 

And  mild  and  beaming  eye. 

And  oft  he  paused  and  looked  around, 

And  knelt  as  if  in  fear  ; 
But  Crusoe  made  him  signs  to  come, 

And  softly  he  drew  near. 

Then  Crusoe  named  him  Friday  there, 
And  ever  called  him  so, 


Because  upon  that  very  day 
He  saved  him  from  the  foe. 

And  Friday  quickly  learned  to  work, 

For  ready  hand  had  he; 
And  helped  in  time  to  build  a  boat 

And  launch  it  in  the  sea. 

His  master  taught  him  many  things ; 

Of  God  he  told  him,  too, 
Whomadethesun,and  moon, and  stars, 

And  watches  all  we  do. 


OLD    TALES   AND    BALLADS. 


4C3 


A  touching  sight  it  was  to  see 
Poor  Friday  kneel  to  pray — 

To  hear  him  cry  to  God  for  help 
In  his  poor  broken  way. 

Where'er  he  was,  in  house  or  field, 
He  ever  was  the  same — 

Obeyed  his  master  with  a  smile, 
And  feared  his  Maker's  name. 


One  morning  Friday  came  in  haste, 

In  trembling  and  in  awe, 
And  told  his  master  three  canoes 

Upon  the  beach  he  saw. 

Then  Crusoe  bade  him  bring  the  guns, 
And  prime  without  delay ; 

And  soon  they  beat  the  savages, 
And  drove  them  all  away. 

In  one  canoe  upon  the  sands, 
Half  dead  and  strongly  bound, 

All  ready  for  to  kill  and  eat, 
A  poor  old  man  they  found. 

When  Friday  saw  his  face,  he  paused 

Another  look  to  take, 
Then  laughed  and  cried,  and  sobbed 
and  wept, 

As  if  his  heart  would  break. 

He  clasped  the  old  man  round  the  neck, 
And  kissed  him  o'er  and  o'er, 

And  leaped  and  danced  with  very  joy 
To  see  that  face  once  more. 

He  gave  him  food,  he  brought  him 
drink, 
He  cut  his  bonds  in  twain— 


The  dear  old  father  that  he  loved, 
Nor  thought  to  see  again. 

Poor  Friday,  though  his  skin  was  black, 
His  heart  was  warm  and  kind  : 

My  little  ones,  a  lesson  this 
For  all  to  bear  in  mind. 

Now  eight-and-twenty  weary  years 

Had  Crusoe  been  ashore, 
Upon  his  island  night  and  day, 

Nor  thought  to  leave  it  more. 

Then  oh,  what  joy  was  his  to  see, 
One  morn,  a  spreading  sail 

Come  dancing  o'er  the  waters  blue, 
Before  the  swelling  gale  ! 

He  watched  with  Friday  from  a  hill, 
Though  distant  many  a  mile, 

Until  he  saw  a  boat  put  off, 
And  row  toward  the  isle. 


And  now,  at  last,  his  trials  o'er, 
With  grateful  heart  he  trod 

Once  more  on  board  an  English 
And  bowed  his  thanks  to  God. 


ship, 


His  faithful  Friday  went  with  him  : 
His  Friday,  true  and  kind, 

Who  loved  him  more  than  all  on  earth 
He  could  not  leave  behind. 

His  big  umbrella,  too,  he  took, 

His  hairy  cap  as  well, 
And  parrot  with  its  noisy  tongue, 

Of  other  days  to  tell. 

And  then  with  heavy  heart  he  turned 

To  bid  his  home  adieu  ; 
And  soon,  as  onward  sped  the  ship. 

It  faded  from  his  view. 


464 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


And  when  old  England's  shore  he  saw, 

Oh,  he  shed  many  tears  ; 
For  he  had  been  away  in  all 

Full  five-and-thirty  years. 

VERSES 

Supposed  to  be  written  by  Alexander  Selkirk  dur- 
ing his  solitary  abode  on  the  island  of  Juan  Fer- 
nandez. 

I  am  monarch  of  all  I  survey  ; 

My  right  there  is  none  to  dispute  ; 
From  the  centre  all  round  to  the  sea, 

I  am  lord  of  the  fowl  and  the  brute. 

0  Solitude  !  where  are  the  charms 
That  sages  have  seen  in  thy  face? 

Better  dwell  in  the  midst  of  alarms 
Than  reign  in  this  horrible  place. 

1  am  out  of  humainty's  reach, 

I  must  finish  my  journey  alone, 
Never  hear  the  sweet  music  of  speech — 

I  start  at  the  sound  of  my  own. 
The  beasts  that  roam  over  the  plain 

My  form  with  indifference  see ; 
They  are  so  unacquainted  with  man 

Their  tameness  is  shocking  to  me. 

Society,  Friendship,  and  Love, 

Divinely  bestowed  upon  man, 
Oh,  had  I  the  wings  of  a  dove, 

How  soon  would  I  taste  you  again ! 
My  sorrows  I  then  might  assuage  v 

In  the  ways  of  religion  and  truth, 
Might  learn  from  the  wisdom  of  age, 

And  be  cheered  by  the  sallies  of 
youth. 

Religion  !  what  treasure  untold 
Resides  in  that  heavenly  word  ! 

More  precious  than  silver  and  gold, 
Or  all  that  this  earth  can  afford. 

But  the  sound  of  the    church-going 
bell 
These  vallevs  and  rocks  never  heard, 


Never  sighed  at  the  sound  of  a  knell, 
Or    smiled    when    a    Sabbath    ap- 
peared. 

Ye  winds  that  have  made  me  your 
sport, 

Convey  to  this  desolate  shore 
Some  cordial,  endearing  report 

Of  a  land  I  shall  visit  no  more. 
My    friends,  do   they  now  and   then 
send 

A  wish  or  a  thought  after  me  ? 
Oh,  tell  me  I  yet  have  a  friend, 

Though  a  friend  I  am  never  to  see. 

How  fleet  is  the  glance  of  the  mind ! 

Compared   with   the    speed   of   its 
flight, 
The  tempest  itself  lags  behind 

And  the  swift-winged  arrows  of  light. 
When  I  think  of  my  own  native  land, 

In  a  moment  I  seem  to  be  there ; 
But,  alas  !  recollection  at  hand 

Soon  hurries  me  back  to  despair. 

But  the  sea-fowl  is  gone  to  her  nest, 

The  beast  is  laid  down  in  his  lair ; 
Even  here  is  a  season  of  rest, 

And  I  to  my  cabin  repair. 
There's  mercy  in  every  place, 

And  mercy,  encouraging  thought ! 
Gives  even  affliction  a  grace, 

And  reconciles  man  to  his  lot. 

William  Cowper. 


BISHOP   HATTO. 
The  summer  and  autumn  had  been 

so  wet 
That  in  winter  the  corn  was  growing 

yet. 
'Twas  a  piteous  sight  to  see  all  around 
The  grain  lie  rotting  on  the  ground. 


BISHOP    HATTO'S   TOWER   (THE    MOUSE-TOWER)    AND    DRACHENFELS. 
30 


466 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


Every  day  the  starving  poor 
Crowded  around  Bishop  Hatto 's  door; 
For  he    had   a   plentiful  last  year's 

store, 
And  all  the  neighborhood  could  tell 
His  granaries  were  furnished  well. 

At   last   Bishop    Hatto    appointed   a 

day 
To  quiet  the  poor  without  delay  ; 
He  bade  them  to  his  great  barn  repair, 
And  they  should  have  food  for  the 

winter  there. 

Rejoiced  the  tidings  good  to  hear, 
The  poor  folk  flocked  from  far  and 

near ; 
The  great  barn  was  full  as  it  could 

hold 
Of  women  and  children,  and  young 

and  old. 

Then,  when  he  saw  it  could  hold  no 

more, 
Bishop  Hatto  he  made  fast  the  door, 
And  while  for  mercy  on  Christ  they 

call, 
He  set  fire  to  the  barn  and  burned 

them  all. 

"  I'  faith,   'tis   an   excellent  bonfire," 

quoth  he, 
"  And  the  country  is  greatly  obliged 

to  me 
For  ridding  it,  in  these  times  forlorn, 
Of  rats  that  only  consume  the  corn." 

So  then  to  his  palace  returned  he, 
And  he  sat  down  to  supper  merrily, 
And  he  slept  that  night  like  an  inno- 
cent man, 
But  Bishop  Hatto  never  slept  again. 


In  the  morning,  as  he  entered  the  hall, 
Where   his  picture  hung  against  the 

wall, 
A  sweat  like  death  all  over  him  came, 
For  the  rats  had  eaten  it  out  of  the 

frame. 

|  As  he  looked  there  came  a  man  from 

his  farm — 
He    had   a   countenance  Avhite   with 

alarm : 
"  My   lord,  I    opened   your  granaries 

this  morn, 
And  the  rats  had  eaten  all  your  corn." 

Another  came  running  presently, 
And  he  was  pale  as  pale  could  be. 
"  Fly  !  my  lord  bishop,  fly,"  quoth  he, 
"  Ten  thousand  rats  are  coming  this 

way — 
The  Lord  forgive  you  for  yesterday  !" 

"  I'll  go  to  my  tower  on  the  Rhine," 

replied  he, 
"  'Tis  the  safest  place  in  Germany ; 
The  walls  are  high  and  the  shores  are 

steep, 
And  the  stream  is  strong  and  the  water 

deep." 

Bishop  Hatto  fearfully  hastened  away, 

And  he  crossed  the  Rhine  without  de- 
lay, 

And  reached  his  tower,  and  barred 
with  care 

All  the  windows,  doors,  and  loopholes 
there. 

He  laid  him  down  and  closed  his 
eyes, 

But  soon  a  scream  made  him  arise  ; 

He  started,  and  saw  two  eyes  of  flame 

On  his  pillow,  from  whence  the  scream- 
ing came. 


OLD    TALES   AND    BALLADS. 


467 


He  listened  and  looked ;  it  was  only 

the  cat ; 
But  the  bishop  he  grew  more  fearful 

for  that, 
For  she  sat  screaming,  mad  with  fear, 
At  the  army  of  rats  that  were  drawing 

near. 

For  they  have  swum  over  the  river  so 

deep, 
And  they  have  climbed  the  shores  so 

steep, 
And  up  the  tower  their  way  is  bent 
To  do  the  work  for  which  they  were 

sent. 

They  are  not  to  be  told  by  the  dozen 
or  score ; 

By  thousands  they  come,  and  by 
myriads  and  more ; 

Such  numbers  had  never  been  heard 
of  before, 

Such  a  judgment  had  never  been  wit- 
nessed of  yore. 

Down  on  his  knees  the  bishop  fell, 
And  faster  and  faster  his  beads  did  he 

tell, 
As,  louder  and  louder  drawing  near, 
The  gnawing  of  their  teeth  he  could 

hear. 

And  in  at  the  windows,  and  in  at  the 
door, 

And  through  the  walls  helter-skelter 
they  pour, 

And  down  from  the  ceiling  and  up 
through  the  floor, 

From  the  right  and  the  left,  from  be- 
hind and  before, 

From  within  and  without,  from  above 
and  below, 

And  all  at  once  to  the  bishop  they  go. 


They  have  whetted  their  teeth  against 

the  stones, 
And  now  they  pick  the  bishop's  bones ; 
They  gnawed  the   flesh   from    every 

limb, 
For  they  were  sent  to  do  judgment  on 

him. 

Robert  Southev. 


THE  PIED  PIPER  OF  HAMELIN, 

Hamelin  Town's  in  Brunswick, 

By  famous  Hanover  city  ; 

The  river  Weser,  deep  and  wide, 
Washes   its  wall    on  the  southern 

side; 
A  pleasanter  spot  you  never  spied  ; 

But,  when  begins  my  ditty, 
Almost  five  hundred  years  ago, 
To  see  the  townsfolk  suffer  so 

From  vermin  was  a  pity. 

Rats ! 
They  fought  the  dogs,  and  killed  the 
cats, 
And  bit  the  babies  in  the  cradles, 
And  ate  the  cheeses  out  of  the  vats, 
And  licked  the  soup  from  the  cook's 
own  ladles, 
Split  open  the  kegs  of  salted  sprats, 
Made    nests    inside     men's     Sunday 

hats, 
And  even  spoiled  the  women's  chats 
By  drowning  their  speaking 
"With  shrieking  and  squeaking 
In  fifty  different  sharps  and  flats. 

At  last  the  people  in  a  body 

To  the  Town  Hall  came  flocking : 
"  'Tis  clear,"  cried  they,  "  our  Mayor's 
a  noddy ; 
And  as  for  our  Corporation — shock- 
ing 


468 


TEE    CEILDREN'S   BOOK    OF  POETRY. 


To  think  we  buy  gowns  lined  with  er- 
mine 

For  dolts  that  can't  or  won't  deter- 
mine 

What's  best  to  rid  us  of  our  vermin ! 

You  hope,  because  you're  old  and 
obese, 

To  find  in  the  furry  civic  robe  ease? 

Rouse  up,  sirs !  Give  your  brains  a 
racking 

To  find  the  remedy  we're  lacking, 

Or,  sure  as  fate,  we'll  send  you  pack- 
ing!" 

At  this  the  Mayor  and  Corporation 

Quaked  with  a  mighty  consternation. 

An  hour  they  sate  in  counsel, 

At  length  the  Mayor  broke  silence : 
"  For  a  guilder  I'd  my  ermine  gown 

sell ; 
I  wish  I  were  a  mile  hence ! 
It's  easy  to  bid  one  rack  one's  brain — 
I'm  sure  my  poor  head  aches  again, 
I've  scratched  it  so,  and  all  in  vain. 
Oh  for  a  trap,  a  trap,  a  trap  !" 
Just   as   he   said    this,   what   should 

hap 
At   the   chamber-door    but   a    gentle 

tap  ? 
"  Bless  us  !"  cried  the  Mayor,  "  what's 

that?" 
(With  the  Corporation  as  he  sat, 
Looking  little  though  wondrous  fat ; 
Nor  brighter  was  his  eye,  nor  moister 
Than  a  too-long-opened  oyster, 
Save  when  at  noon  his  paunch  grew 

mutinous 
For  a  plate  of  turtle,  green  and  glu- 
tinous) 
"  Only   a   scraping   of   shoes   on   the 

mat  ? 
Anything  like  the  sound  of  a  rat 
Makes  my  heart  go  pit-a-pat ! 


"  Come  in !"  the  Mayor  cried,  looking 

bigger ; 
And  in  did  come  the  strangest  figure ! 
His  queer  long  coat  from  heel  to  head 
Was  half  of  yellow  and  half  of  red ; 
And  he  himself  was  tall  and  thin, 
With  sharp  blue  eyes,  each  like  a  pin, 
And    light,    loose   hair,   yet   swarthy 

skin, 
No  tuft  on  cheek  nor  beard  on  chin, 
But  lips  where  smiles  went  out  and 

in — 
There  was  no  guessing  his  kith  and 

kin! 
And  nobody  could  enough  admire 
The  tall  man  and  his  quaint  attire : 
Quoth  one,  "  It's  as  my  great-grand- 
sire, 
Starting  up  at  the  Trump  of  Doom's 

tone, 
Had  walked  this  way  from  his  paint- 
ed tombstone !" 

He  advanced  to  the  council-table, 
And,  "  Please  your  honors,"  said  he, 

"  I'm  able, 
By  means  of  a  secret  charm,  to  draw 
All  creatures  living  beneath  the  sun, 
That  creep,  or  swim,  or  fly,  or  run, 
After  me  so  as  you  never  saw ! 
And  I  chiefly  use  my  charm 
On  creatures  that  do  jDeople  harm — 
The  mole,  and  toad,  and  newt,  and 

viper  ; 
And  people  call  me  the  Pied  Piper." 
(And  here  they  noticed  round  his  neck 
A  scarf  of  red  and  yellow  stripe, 
To  match  with  his  coat  of  the  self- 
same check ; 
And  at  the  scarf's  end  hung  a  pipe ; 
And  his  fingers,  they  noticed,  were 

ever  straying 
As  if  impatient  to  be  playing 


OLD    TALES   AND    BALLADS. 


469 


Upon  this  pipe,  as  low  it  dangled 
Over  his  vesture  so  old-fangled.) 

"  Yet/'  said  he,  "  poor  piper  as  I  am, 

In  Tartary  I  freed  the  Cham, 

Last  June,  from  his  huge  swarm  of 
gnats ; 

I  eased  in  Asia  the  Nizam 

Of  a  monstrous  brood  of  vampire 
bats; 

And,  as  for  what  your  brain  bewil- 
ders— 

If  I  can  rid  your  town  of  rats, 

Will  you  give  me  a  thousand  guild- 
ers ?" 

"One?  fifty  thousand!"  was  the  ex- 
clamation 

Of  the  astonished  Mayor  and  Corpo- 
ration. 

Into  the  street  the  piper  stept, 

Smiling  first  a  little  smile, 
As  if  he  knew  what  magic  slept 

In  his  quiet  pipe  the  while ; 
Tben,  like  a  musical  adept, 
To  blow  the  pipe  his  lips  he  wrinkled, 
And  green  and  blue  his  sharp  eyes 

twinkled, 
Like   a    candle-flame   where    salt    is 

sprinkled ; 
And  ere  three  shrill  notes  the  pipe 

uttered, 
You  heard  as  if  an  army  muttered ; 
And  the  muttering  grew  to  a  grum- 
bling ; 
And  the  grumbling  grew  to  a  mighty 

rumbling ; 
And  out  of  the  houses  the  rats  came 

tumbling. 
Great    rats,    small     rats,    lean     rats, 

brawny  rats, 
Brown  rats,  black  rats,  gray  rats,  tawny 

rats, 


Grave  old  plodders,  gay  young  friskers, 

Fathers,  mothers,  uncles,  cousins, 
Cocking  tails  and  pricking  whiskers, 

Families  by  tens  and  dozens, 
Brothers,  sisters,  husbands,  wives — 
Followed  the  piper  for  their  lives. 
From   street  to   street   he  piped   ad- 
vancing, 
And  step  for  step  they  followed  dan- 

fi  n  B" 
Until  they  came  to  the  river  Weser, 
Wherein  all  plunged  and  perished, 
Save  one,  who,  stout  as  Julius  Csesar, 
Swam  across  and  lived  to  carry 
(As  the  manuscript  he  cherished) 
To  Rat-land  home  his  commentary, 
Which  was,  "  At  the  first  shrill  notes 

of  the  pipe, 
I  heard  a  sound  as  of  scraping  tripe, 
And  putting  apples,  wondrous  ripe, 
Into  a  cider-press's  gripe : 
And   a   moving   away   of    pickle-tub 

boards, 
And  a  leaving  ajar  of  conserve-cup- 
boards, 
And  a  drawing  the  corks  of  train-oil 

flasks, 
And  a  breaking  the  hoops  of  butter- 
casks  ; 
And  it  seemed  as  if  a  voice 
( Sweeter  far  than  by  harp  or  by  psaltery 
Is  breathed)  called  out,  O  rats,  rejoice ! 
The  world  is  grown  to  one  vast  dry- 
saltery ! 
So  munch  on,  crunch  on,  take  your 

nuncheon, 
Breakfast,  supper,  dinner,  luncheon  ! 
And  just  as  a  bulk}^  sugar-puncheon, 
All  ready  staved,  like  a  great  sun  shone 
Glorious  scarce  an  inch  before  me, 
Just  as  methought  it  said,  Come,  bore 

me, 
I  found  the  Weser  rolling;  o'er  me." 


470 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


You  should  have  heard  the  Hamelin 
people 

Ringing  the  bells  till  they  rocked  the 
steeple ; 

"  Go,"  cried  the  Mayor,  "and  get  long 
poles ! 

Poke  out  the  nests  and  block  up  the 
holes ! 

Consult  with  carpenters  and  builders, 

And  leave  in  our  town  not  even  a  trace 

Of  the  rats !" — when  suddenly  up  the 
face 

Of  the  Piper  perked  in  the  market- 
place, 

With  a,  "  First,  if  you  please,  my  thou- 
sand guilders !" 

A  thousand  guilders !  The  Mayor 
looked  blue, 

So  did  the  Corporation  too. 

For  council  dinners  made  rare  havoc 

With  Claret,  Moselle,  Vin-de-Grave, 
Hock; 

And  half  the  money  would  replenish 

Their  cellar's  biggest  butt  with  Rhen- 
ish. 

To  pay  this  sum  to  a  wandering  fel- 
low, 

With  a  gypsy  coat  of  red  and  yellow ! 

"  Beside,"  quoth  the  Mayor,  with  a 
knowing  wink, 

"  Our  business  was  done  at  the  river's 
brink  ; 

We  saw  with  our  eyes  the  vermin  sink, 

And  what's  dead  can't  come  to  life,  I 
think. 

So,  friend,  we're  not  the  folks  to  shrink 

From  the  duty  of  giving  you  some- 
thing for  drink, 

And  a  matter  of  money  to  put  in  your 
poke  ; 

But,  as  for  the  guilders,  what  we  spoke 

Of  them,  as  you  very  well  know,  was 
in  joke. 


Beside,    our    losses    have    made    us 

thrifty ; 
A   thousand    guilders !      Come,   take 

fifty  !" 

The  piper's  face  fell,  and  he  cried, 
"  No  trifling  !     I  can't  wait!   beside, 
I've  promised  to  visit  by  dinner-time 
Bagdat,  and  accept  the  prime 
Of  the  Head  Cook's  pottage,  all  he's 

rich  in, 
For  having  left,  in  the  Caliph's  kitch- 
en, 
Of  a  nest  of  scorpions  no  survivor — 
With  him  I  proved  no  bargain-driver. 
With   you,    don't   think    I'll    bate   a 

stiver ! 
And  folks  who  put  me  in  a  passion 
May  find   me  pipe  to   another  fash- 
ion." 

"Plow!"  cried  the  Mayor;  "d'ye think 

I'll  brook 
Being  worse  treated  than  a  cook  ? 
Insulted  by  a  lazy  ribald 
With  idle  pipe  and  vesture  piebald  ? 
You  threaten   us,  fellow?     Do   your 

worst ; 
Blow  your  pipe  there  till  you  burst !" 

Once  more  he  stept  into  the  street; 

And  to  his  lips  again 
Laid  his  long  pipe  of  smooth,  straight 
cane ; 
And  ere  he  blew  three  notes  (such 
sweet 
Soft  notes  as  yet  musician's  cunning 

Never  gave  the  enraptured  air) 
There  was  a  rustling,  that  seemed  like 

a  bustling 
Of  merry  crowds  justling  at  pitching 

and  hustling, 
Small  feet  were  pattering,  wooden  shoes 
clattering, 


OLD    TALES   AMD    BALLADS. 


471 


Little    hands     clapping,     and     little 

tongues  chattering, 
And,  like  fowls  in  a  farmyard  when 

barley  is  scattering, 
Out  came  the  children  running. 
All  the  little  boys  and  girls, 
With  rosy  cheeks  and  flaxen  curls, 
And   sparkling   eyes   and  teeth   like 

pearls, 
Tripping  and   skipping,  ran  merrily 

after 
The  wonderful  music  with  shouting 

and  laughter. 

The  Mayor  was  dumb  and  the  Coun- 
cil stood 
As  if  they  were  changed  into  blocks 

of  wood, 
Unable  to  move  a  step,  or  cry 
To  the  children  merrily  skipping  by, 
And  could  only  follow  with  the  eye 
That  joyous  crowd  at  the  Piper's  back. 
But  how  the  Mayor  was  on  the  rack, 
And  the  wretched  Council's  bosoms 

beat, 
As  the  Piper  turned   from  the   High 

Street 
To  where  the  Weser  rolled  its  waters 
Right  in  the  way  of  their  sons  and 
daughters ! 

However,  he  turned  from  south  to 
west, 

And  to  Koppelberg  Hill  his  steps  ad- 
dressed, 

And  after  him  the  children  pressed ; 

Great  was  the  joy  in  every  breast. 

"  He  never  can  cross  that  mighty  top ! 

He's  forced  to  let  the  piping  drop, 

And  we  shall  see  our  children  stop !" 

When,  lo !  as  they  reached  the  moun- 
tain's side, 

A  wondrous  portal  opened  wide, 


As  if  a  cavern  was  suddenly  hollowed ; 
And  the  Piper  advanced  and  the  chil- 
dren followed, 
And  when  all  were  in  to  the  very  last, 
The  door  in  the  mountain-side  shut 

fast. 
Did  I  say  all  ?     No !  one  was  lame, 
And  could  not  dance  the  whole  of  the 

way, 
And  in  after  years,  if  you  would  blame 
His  sadness,  he  was  used  to  say, 
"  It's  dull  in  our  town  since  my  play- 
mates left ! 
I  can't  forget  that  I'm  bereft 
Of  all  the  pleasant  sights  they  see, 
Which  the  Piper  also  promised  me  ; 
For  he  led  us,  he  said,  to  a  joyous  land, 
Joining  the  town  and  just  at  hand, 
Where  waters  gushed  and  fruit  trees 

grew, 
And  flowers  put  forth  a  fairer  hue. 
And  everything  was  strange  and  new; 
The  sparrows  were  brighter  than  pea- 
cocks here, 
And  their  dogs  outran  our  fallow  deer, 
And  honey-bees  had  lost  their  stings. 
And   horses   were   born  with   eagles' 

wings ; 
And  just  as  I  became  assured 
My  lame  foot  would  be  speedily  cured, 
The  music  stopped,  and  I  stood  still, 
And  found  myself  outside  the  Hill, 
Left  alone  against  my  will, 
To  go  now  limping  as  before, 
And  never  hear  of  that  country  more !" 

Alas,  alas  for  Hamelin  ! 

There  came  into  many  a  burgher's 

pate 
A  text  which   says  that  Heaven's 

Gate 
Opes  to  the  rich  at  as  easy  rate 
As  the  needle's  eye  takes  a  camel  in ! 


472 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF    POETRY. 


The  Mayor  sent  east,  west,  north,  and 

south 
To  offer  the  Piper  by  word  of  mouth, 
Wherever  it  was  men's  lot  to  find 

him, 
Silver  and  gold  to  his  heart's  content, 
If  he'd  only  return  the  way  he  went, 
And  bring  the  children  behind  him. 
But  when  they  saw  'twas  a  lost  en- 
deavor, 
And  Piper  and  dancers  were  gone  for 

ever, 
They   made    a   decree   that    lawyers 

never 
Should   think  their  records  dated 

duly 
If,  after  the  day  of  the  month  and 

year, 
These  words  did  not  as  well  appear : 
"And   so   long   after  what  happened 

here 
On  the  twenty-second  of  July, 
Thirteen  hundred  and  Seventy-six ;" 
And  the  better  in  memory  to  fix 
The  place  of  the  children's  last  re- 
treat, 
They  called  it  the  Pied  Piper's  Street, 
Where  any  one  playing  on  pipe  or 

tabor 
WTas  sure  for  the  future  to  lose  his 

labor, 
Nor  suffered  they  hostelry  or  tavern 
To   shock  with    mirth   a   street  so 

solemn, 
But  opposite  the  place  of  the  cavern 
They  wrote  the  story  on  a  column, 
And    on    the     great   church-window 

painted 
The  same,  to  make  the  world  acquaint^ 

ed 
How  their  children  were  stolen  away, 
And  there  it  stands  to  this  very  day. 
And  I  must  not  omit  to  say 


That  in  Transylvania  there's  a  tribe 
Of  alien  people  that  ascribe 
The  outlandish  ways  and  dress 
On  which  their   neighbors  lay  such 

stress 
To  their  fathers  and  mothers  having 

risen 
Out  of  some  subterranean  prison, 
Into  which  they  were  trepanned 
Long  time  ago  in  a  mighty  band 
Out  of  Hamelin  town  in  Brunswick 

land, 
But  how  or  why,  they  don't  under- 
stand. 

So,  Willy,  let  you  and  me  be  wipers 
Of  scores  out  with  all  men — especially 

pipers ; 
And,  whether  they  pipe  us  free,  from 

rats  or  from  mice, 
If  we've  promised  them  aught,  let  us 

keep  our  promise. 

Robert  Browning. 


LITTLE  RED  RIDING-HOOD. 

The   Little    Red  Riding-Hood — such 
was  the  name 
Of  a  nice  little  girl  who  lived  ages 
ago; 
But  listen,  I  pray  you,  and  then  how 
she  came 
Such  a  title  to  get  you  shall  speedily 
know. 

She  lived  in  a  village  not  far  from  a 
wood, 
And  her  parents  were  all  the  rela- 
tions she  had, 
Except  her  old   grandmother,  gentle 
and  good, 
Who  to  pet  her  and  please  her  was 
always  most  glad. 


OLD    TALES   AND    BALLADS. 


473 


Her  grandmother  made  her  a  riding- 
hood,  which 
She  was   always   to  wear   at  such 
times  as  she  could  ; 
'Twas  made  of  red  cloth,  so  the  poor 
and  the  rich 
Used  to  call  the  child   Little  Red 
Riding-Hood. 

Her   mother,  one   day,   said,   "  Your 
granny  is  ill ; 
Go  and  see  her — be  sure  not  to  loiter 
along ; 


Your   basket  with   cheese-cakes   and 
butter  I'll  fill- 
Now,  be  sure  not  to  gossip,  for  that's 
very  wrong. 

"  If  met  by  a  stranger,  be  cautious, 
my  child ; 
Do    not    hold    conversation — just 
curtsey  and  say, 
'  I'm  sent  on  an  errand.'     Do  not  be 
beguiled 
By  strange  folks  and  smooth  words 
from  your  straight  path  to  stray."' 


Not  far  had   she   gone   through   the  I  He  talked  so  politely,  he  made  her 
wood,  when  she  met  forget 

With  a  wolf,  who  most  civilly  bade  |      She  was  not  to  converse  with  strange 
her  good-day  ;  folks  on  the  way. 


474 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


"  To  see  your  dear  granny  you're  go- 
ing ?"  said  he ; 
"  I  have  known  her  some  years,  so 
a  visit  I'll  pay; 
If  what  you  have  told  me  is  true,  I 
shall  see ;" 
And  the  wolf  then  ran  off  without 
further  delay. 

The  maiden  forgot  her  fond  mother's 
advice ; 
As   some   pretty   wild  flowers   she 
gathered  with  glee 
To    take    to   her   granny — she    said, 
"  'Twill  be  nice 
If    I    take   them    to  granny — how 
pleased  she  will  be  !" 

The  wolf  hastened  on  to  the  grand- 
mother's cot ; 
"Who  is  there?"'  cried  the  dame. 
"  'Tis  your  grandchild,"  he  said. 
"Pull  the  bobbin!"    said   she;    soon 
entrance  he  got, 
And    devoured    the   poor   helpless 
dame  in  her  bed. 

He  scarcely  had  finished  his  horrible 
feast, 
When  the  Little  Red  Riding-Hood 
came  to  the  door. 
She  tapped  very  gently  ;  the  ravenous 
beast 
Cried  out,  "Oh,  I'm  so  hoarse !  oh, 
my  throat  is  so  sore  !" 

Then   Little  Red   Riding-Hood   said, 
"  Granny  dear, 
It  is  I  who  am  knocking,  so  please 
let  me  in." 
:i  Pull  the  bobbin,"  the  wolf  said  ;  "  I 
am  glad  you  are  here — 
You  bring  me  a  supper,"  he  said 
with  a  grin. 


When  Riding-Hood  entered  the  wolf 
said,  "  I'm  weak ; 
I  have  pain  in  my  limbs,  and  much 
pain  in  my  head  ; 
Be  quiet,  dear  grandchild ;  don't  ask 
me  to  speak, 
But  undress  yourself  quickly  and 
come  into  bed." 

She  quickly  undressed,  and  she  got 
into  bed, 
But  she  could  not  refrain  from  ex- 
pressing her  fears. 
"  Oh,  grandmother  dear !"   the  maid 
timidly  said ; 
"  I  have  never  before  seen  such  very 
large  ears !" 

"  The  better  to  hear  you,"  the  wolf 
then  replied  ; 
But  Red  Riding-Hood  heard  what 
he  said  with  surprise, 
And,  trembling  with  fear,  "  Oh   my  ! 
granny  !"  she  cried, 
"  You   have   very  large  teeth,  and 
what  great  flashing  eyes  !" 

"The  better  to  see  you  !     The  better 
to  bite ! 
I  am  not  your  old  granny,  I'll  soon 
let  you  see — 
I  ate  her  to-day,  and  I'll  eat  you  to- 
night ; 
By  and  by  you  shall  make  a  nice 
supper  for  me." 

But  just  as  he  said  so  the  door  open 
flew, 
And  in   rushed   some   brave   men, 
who  had  heard  all  that  passed  ; 
The     bloodthirsty    wolf    then     they 
speedily  slew, 
And  saved  Little  Red  Riding-Hood's 
life  at  the  last. 


OLD    TALES   AJVD    BALLADS. 


475 


BEWARE  OF  THE  WOLF. 


I  That    eats   so   much   move   than   for 

You  never  need  fear,  little  children,  to  j  health  can  he  good- 

meet  |  That   would    clear    a  whole    pastry- 

A  wolf  in  the  garden,  the  wood,  or  the  cook's  shoP  if  it  could 

street ; 

Red   Riding-Hood's  story  is   only   a 
fable ; 

I'll  give  you  its  moral  as  well  as  I'm 
able. 

Bad  Temper's  the  wolf  which  we  meet  i  Passion,  Prying,  and  Greediness,  each 


That   never  a   dainty  to   others  will 

spare — 
Beware  of  this  wolf !    little  children, 

beware ! 


evervwhere- 


thus  appears 


Beware  of  this  wolf!    little  children,    Asa  wolf  with  fierce  eyes,  large  mouth, 
beware !  or  big  ears  ; 

They  bring  to  our  nurseries  fighting 
I  know  of  a  boy  neither  gentle   nor  ano-  fears, 


wise ; 
If  you  tell  him  a  fault  he  gives  saucy 

replies ; 
If  kept  from  his  way,  in  a  fury  he 

flies— 
Ah,  Passion's  the  wolf  with  the  very 

large  eyes ; 
Tis  ready  to  snap,  and  to  trample  and 

tear — 
Beware  of  this  wolf !    little  children, 

beware ! 


They  cause  bitter  quarrelling,  trouble. 

and  tears. 
Oh,  chase  them  and  cudgel  them  back 

to  their  lair — 
Beware  of    the  wolf!   little  children 

beware ! 


WILLIAM  TELL. 

Come,  list  to  me  and  you  shall  hear 

A  tale  of  what  befell 
A  famous  man  of  Switzerland ; 

His  name  was  William  Tell. 


Near  Reuss's  bank,  from  day  to  day, 
His  little  flock  he  led. 


I  know  of  a   girl   always    trying   to 

learn 
About  things  with  which  she  should 

have  no  concern  ; 

Such  mean  curiosity  really  appears      j  By  prudent  thrift  and  hardy  toil 
To  me  like  the   wolf  with   the   very  J      Content  to  earn  his  bread. 

large  ears, 
All  pricked  up  to  listen,  each  secret  to    Nor  was  the  hunter's  craft  unknown; 


share — 


In  Uri  none  was  seen 


Beware  of  this  wolf  !   little  children,    To  track  the  rock-frequenting  herd 


beware ! 


With  eve  so  true  and  keen. 


And  Greediness!  that's  like  the  wolf     A  little  son  was  in  his  home — 


in  the  wood 


A  laughing,  fair-haired  boy ; 


With  the  very  large  mouth,  ever  prowl-    So  strong  of  limb,  so  blithe  of  heart, 


ing  for  food — 


He  made  it  ring  with  joy 


476 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


His  father's  sheep  were  all  his  friends, 
The  lambs  he  called  by  name, 

And  when  they  frolicked  in  the  fields 
The  child  would  share  the  game. 

So  peacefully  their  hours  were  spent 
That  life  had  scarce  a  sorrow; 

They  took  the  good  of  every  day, 
And  hoped  for  more  to-morrow. 

But  oft  some  shining  April  morn 

Is  darkened  in  an  hour, 
And  blackest  griefs  o'er  joyous  homes 

Alas  !  unseen  may  lower. 

Not  yet  on  Switzerland  had  dawned 

Her  day  of  liberty  ; 
The  stranger's  yoke  was  on  her  sons, 

And  pressed  right  heavily. 

So  one  was  sent  in  luckless  hour 
To  rule  in  Austria's  name : 

A  haughty  man,  of  savage  mood, 
In  pomp  and  pride  he  came. 

One  day  in  wantonness  of  power 

He  set  his  cap  on  high ; 
"  Bow  down,  ye  slaves !"  the  order  ran ; 

"  Who  disobeys  shall  die  !" 

It   chanced  that   William    Tell    that 
morn 

Had  left  his  cottage  home, 
And,  with  his  little  son  in  hand, 

To  Altorf  town  had  come ; 

For  oft  the  boy  had  eyed  the  spoil 
His  father  homeward  bore, 

And  prayed  to  join  the  hunting  crew 
When  they  should  roam  for  more. 

And  often  on  some  merry  night, 
When  wondrous  feats  were  told, 

He  longed  his  father's  bow  to  take, 
And  be  a  hunter  bold. 


So  toward  the  chamois'  haunts  they 
went ; 

One  sang  his  childish  songs, 
The  other  brooded  mournfully 

O'er  Uri's  griefs  and  wrongs. 

Tell  saw  the  crowd,  the  lifted  cap, 

The  tyrant's  angry  frown, 
And  heralds  shouted  in  his  ear, 

"  Bow  down,  ye  slaves,  bow  down !" 

Stern   Gesler    marked   the   peasant's 
mien, 

And  watched  to  see  him  fall ; 
But  never  palm  tree  straighter  stood 

Than  Tell,  before  them  all. 

"  My   knee   shall    bend,"   he   calmly 
said, 

"  To  God,  and  God  alone ; 
My  life  is  in  the  Austrian's  hand — 

My  conscience  is  my  own." 

"  Seize    him,   ye   guards !"   the   ruler 
cried, 
While  passion  choked  his  breath ; 
"  He  mocks  my  power,  he  braves  my 
lord, 
He  dies  the  traitor's  death. 

"Yet  wait!  the  Swiss  are  marksmen 
true, 

So  all  the  Avorld  doth  say : 
That  fair-haired  stripling  hither  bring : 

We'll  try  their  skill  to-day." 

Hard  by  a  spreading  lime  tree  stood: 
To  this  the  youth  was  bound ; 

They  placed  an  apple  on  his  head : 
He  looked  in  wonder  round. 

"  The  fault  is  mine,  if  fault  there  be," 
Cried  Tell  in  accents  wild  ; 

"  On  manhood  let  your  vengeance  fall. 
But  spare,  oh,  spare  my  child !" 


OLD    TALES   AND    BALLADS. 


477 


"  I  will  not  harm  the  pretty  boy," 

Said  Gesler  tauntingly  ; 
"  If  blood  of  his  shall  stain  the  ground, 

Yours  will  the  murder  be. 

"  Draw  tight  your  bow,  my  cunning  ! 
man, 

Your  straightest  arrow  take ; 
For,  know,  yon  apple  is  your  mark ! 

Your  liberty  the  stake !" 

A  mingled  noise  of  wrath  and  grief 
Was  heard  among  the  crowd ; 

The  men,  they  muttered  curses  deep, 
The  women  wept  aloud. 

Full  fifty  paces  from  his  child, 

His  cross-bow  in  his  hand, 
With  lip  compressed  and  flashing  eye 

Tell  firmly  took  his  stand. 

Sure,  full  enough  of  pain  and  woe 
This  crowded  earth  has  been ; 

But  never,  since  the  curse  began, 
So  sad  a  sight  was  seen. 

The  noble  boy  stood  bravely  up, 
His  cheek  unblanched  with  fear ; 

"  Shoot  straight,"  he  cried ;  "  thine  aim 
is  sure ; 
It  will  not  fail  thee  here." 

"  Heaven  bless  thee  now  I'1  the  parent 
said, 

"  Thy  courage  shames  me  quite ;" 
Then  to  his  ear  the  shaft  he  drew, 

And  watched  its  whizzing  flight. 

"  'Tis    done,    'tis  done !   the  child    is 
safe !" 

Shouted  the  multitude ; 
"  Man  tramples  on  his  brother-man, 

But  God  is  ever  good." 


For,  sure  enough,  the  arrow  went 

As  by  an  angel  guided ; 
In  rfieces  two,  beneath  the  tree, 

The  apple  fell  divided. 

'"Twas  bravely  done,"  the  ruler  said, 
"  My  plighted  word  I  keep ; 

'Twas  bravely  done  by  sire  and  son : 
Go  home  and  feed  your  sheep." 

"  No  thanks  I  give  thee  for  thy  boon," 

The  peasant  coldly  said ; 
"  To  God  alone  my  praise  is  due, 

And  duly  shall  be  paid. 

"  Yet  know,  proud  man,  thy  fate  was 
near, 

Had  I  but  missed  my  aim  ; 
Not  unavenged  my  child  had  died, 

Thy  parting  hour  the  same. 

"  For  see !  a  second  shaft  was  here 

If  harm  my  boy  befell ; 
Now  go  and  bless  the  heavenly  pow- 
ers 

My  first  has  sped  so  well." 

God  helped  the  right,  God  spared  the 

sin; 
He  brings  the  proud  to  shame, 
He    guards    the    weak    against    the 

strong — 

Praise  to  His  holy  name  ! 

Ekv.  J.  H.  Guenet. 

SIR  PATRICK  SPENS. 

The  king  sits  in  Dunfermline  town. 

Drinking  the  blude-red  wine: 
"  Oh  where  will  I  get  a  skeely  skipper 

To  sail  this  ship  of  mine  ?" 

Oh  up  and  spake  an  eldern  knight. 
Sat  at  the  king's  right  knee : 

"  Sir  Patrick  Spens  is  the  best  sailor 
That  ever  sailed  the  sea." 


478 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


Our  king  has  written  a  braid  letter, 
And  sealed  it  with  his  hand, 

And  sent  it  to  Sir  Patrick  Spens, 
Was  walking  on  the  strand. 

"  To  Noroway,  to  Noroway, 
To  Noroway  o'er  the  faem; 

The  king's  daughter  of  Noroway, 
'Tis  thou  maun  bring  her  hame!" 

The  first  word  that  Sir  Patrick  read, 
Sae  loud,  loud  laughed  he ; 

The  next  word  that  Sir  Patrick  read, 
The  tear  blinded  his  e'e. 

"  Oh  wha  is  this  has  done  this  deed, 

And  told  the  king  o'  me, 
To  send  us  out  at  this  time  of  the  year, 

To  sail  upon  the  sea? 

"  Be't  wind  or  weet,  be't  hail  or  sleet, 
Our  ship  maun  sail  the  faem; 

The  king's  daughter  of  Noroway, 
'Tis  we  must  fetch  her  hame." 

They  hoised  their  sails  on  Monenday 
morn 

Wi'  a'  the  speed  they  may ; 
They  hae  landed  in  Noroway 

Upon  a  Wodensday. 

They  hadna  been  a  week,  a  week 

In  Noroway,  but  twae, 
When  that  the  lords  o'  Noroway 

Began  aloud  to  say  : 

"  Ye  Scottishmen  spend  a'  our  king's 
goud 

And  a'  our  queenis  fee." 
"  Ye  lie!  ye  lie!  ye  liars  loud! 

Fu'  loud  I  hear  ye  lie ! 

"  For  I  hae  brought  as  much  white 
monie 
As  gane  my  men  and  me, — 


And  I  hae  brought  a  half-fou  o'  gude 
red  goud 
Out  owre  the  sea  wi'  me. 

» 

"  Make  ready,  make  ready,  my  merry 
men  a' ! 

Our  gude  ship  sails  the  morn." 
"  Now,  ever  alake !  my  master  dear, 

I  fear  a  deadly  storm ! 

"  I  saw  the  new  moon,  late  yestreen, 
Wi'  the  auld  moon  in  her  arm ; 

And  if  we  gang  to  sea,  master, 
I  fear  we'll  come  to  harm." 

They  hadna  sailed  a  league,  a  league, 
A  league,  but  barely  three, 

When  the  lift  grew  dark,  and  the  wind 
blew  loud, 
And  gurly  grew  the  sea. 

The  anchors  brak,  and  the  topmasts 
lap, 
It  was  sic  a  deadly  storm ; 
And  the  waves  cam  o'er  the  broken 
ship 
Till  a'  her  sides  were  torn. 

"  Oh  where  will  I  get  a  gude  sailor 
To  take  my  helm  in  hand, 

Till  I  get  up  to  the  tall  topmast 
To  see  if  I  can  spy  land  ?" 

"  Oh  here  am  I,  a  sailor  gude, 
To  take  the  helm  in  hand, 

Till  you  go  up  to  the  tall  topmast, — 
But  I  fear  you'll  ne'er  spy  land." 

He  hadna  gane  a  step,  a  step, 

A  step,  but  barely  ane, 
When  a  boult  flew  out  of  our  goodly 
ship, 

And  the  salt  sea  it  came  in. 


OLD    TALES   AjYD    BALLADS. 


479 


"  Gae  fetch  a  web  o'  the  silken  claith, 

Another  o'  the  twine, 
And  wap  them  into  our  ship's  side, 

And  let  nae  the  sea  come  in." 

They  fetched  a  web  o'  the  silken  claith, 

Another  o'  the  twine, 
And  they  wapped  them  round  that 
gude  ship's  side, 

But  still  the  sea  came  in. 

Oh  laith,  laith  were  our  gude  Scots 
lords 

To  weet  their  cork-heeled  shoon  ! 
But  lang  or  a'  the  play  was  played. 

They  wat  their  hats  aboon. 

And  mony  was  the  feather-bed 

That  floated  on  the  faem  ; 
And  mony  was  the  gude  lord's  son 

That  never  mair  cam  hame. 

The  ladies  wrang  their  lingers  white — 
The  maidens  tore  their  hair  ; 

A'  for  the  sake  of  their  true  loves — 
For  them  they'll  see  nae  mair. 

Oh  lang,  lang  may  the  ladies  sit, 
Wi'  their  fans  into  their  hand, 

Before  they  see  Sir  Patrick  Spens 
Come  sailing  to  the  strand  ! 


THE  BALLAD  OF  CHEVY-CHASE. 

God  prosper  long  our  noble  king, 

Our  lives  and  safeties  all ; 
A  woeful  hunting  once  there  did 

In  Chevy-Chase  befall. 

To  drive   the   deer  with   hound   and 
horn, 

Earl  Percy  took  his  way  ; 
The  child  may  rue  that  is  unborn 

The  hunting  of  that  day. 

The  stout  Earl  of  Northumberland 

A  vow  to  God  did  make 
His  pleasure  in  the  Scottish  woods 

Three  summer  days  to  take  ; 

The  chiefest  harts  in  Chevy-Chase 

To  kill  and  bear  away. 
These  tidings  to  Earl  Douglas  came, 

In  Scotland  where  he  lay  : 

Who  sent  Earl  Percy  present  word 
He  would  prevent  his  sport. 

The  English  Earl,  not  fearing  that, 
Did  to  the  woods  resort 

With  fifteen  hundred  bowmen  bold. 

All  chosen  men  of  might, 
Who  knew  full  well  in  time  of  need 

To  aim  their  shafts  aright. 


And  lang,  lang  may  the  maidens  sit, 
Wi'  their  goud  kaims  in  their  hair, 

A'  waiting  for  their  airi  dear  loves, — 
For  them  they'll  see  nae  mair. 


The  gallant  greyhounds  swiftly  ran, 
To  chase  the  fallow-deer  : 

On  Monday  they  began  to  hunt, 
Ere  daylight  did  appear  ; 


Half  owre,  half  owre  to  Aberdour  And  long  before  high  noon  they  had 

'Tis  fifty  fathoms  deep,  An  hundred  fat  bucks  slain ; 

And  there  lies  gude  Sir  Patrick  Spens  Then  having  dined,  the  drovers  went 
Wi'  the  Scots  lords  at  his  feet.  I      To  rouse  the  deer  again. 


480 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


The  bowmen  mustered  on  the  hills, 

Well  able  to  endure  ; 
And  all  their  rear  with  special  care 

That  day  was  guarded  sure. 

The  hounds  ran  swiftly  through  the 
woods, 
The  nimble  deer  to  take, 
That  with   their  cries   the  hills    and 
dales 
An  echo  shrill  did  make. 

Lord  Percy  to  the  quarry  went, 
To  view  the  slaughtered  deer; 

Quoth  he,  "  Earl  Douglas  promised 
This  day  to  meet  me  here; 

"  But  if  I  thought  he  would  not  come, 

No  longer  would  I  stay." 
With  that,  a  brave  young  gentleman 

Thus  to  the  Earl  did  say  : 

"  Lo,  yonder  doth  Earl  Douglas  come, 

His  men  in  armor  bright ; 
Full  twenty  hundred  Scottish  spears 

All  marching  in  our  sight ; 

"  All  men  of  pleasant  Teviotdale, 

Fast  by  the  river  Tweed." 
"Oh  cease  your  sports,"  Earl  Percy  said, 

"  And  take  your  bows  with  speed. 

"  And  now  with  me,  my  countrymen, 
Your  courage  forth  advance  ; 

For  there  was  never  champion  yet 
In  Scotland  or  in  France, 

"  That  ever  did  on  horseback  come, 

But  if  my  hap  it  were, 
I  durst  encounter  man  for  man, 

With  him  to  break  a  spear." 

Earl  Douglas  on  his  milk-white  steed, 
Most  like  a  baron  bold, 


Rode  foremost  of  his  company, 
Whose  armor  shone  like  gold. 

"  Show  me,"  said  he, "  whose  men  you 
be, 

That  hunt  so  boldly  here, 
That,  without  my  consent,  do  chase 

And  kill  my  fallow-deer." 

The  first  man  that  did  answer  make 

Was  noble  Percy  he  ; 
Who  said,  "  We  list  not  to  declare 

Nor  show  whose  men  we  be. 

"  Yet  we  will  spend  our  dearest  blood 
Thy  chiefest  harts  to  slay." 

Then  Douglas  swore  a  solemn  oath, 
And  thus  in  rage  did  say, 

';  Ere  thus  I  will  outbraved  be, 

One  of  us  two  shall  die  : 
I  know  thee  well,  an  earl  thou  art ; 

Lord  Percy,  so  am  I. 

"  But  trust  me,  Percy,  pity  it  were 

And  great  offence  to  kill 
Any  of  these  our  guiltless  men, 

For  they  have  done  no  ill. 

"  Let  you  and  me  the  battle  try, 

And  set  our  men  aside." 
"  Accurst  be  he,"  Earl  Percy  said, 

"  By  whom  this  is  denied." 

Then  stepped  a  gallant  squire  forth — 
Witherington  was  his  name — 

Who  said,  "  I  would  not  have  it  told 
To  Henry  our  king  for  shame, 

"  That  e'er  my  captain  fought  on  foot 

And  I  stood  looking  on. 
You  be  two  earls,"  said  Witherington, 

"  And  I  a  squire  alone  : 


OLD    TALES   AND    BALLADS. 


481 


"  I'll  do  the  best  that  do  I  may, 
While  I  have  power  to  stand  : 

While   I   have   poAver  to   wield    my 
sword, 
I'll  fight  with  heart  and  hand." 

Our  English  archers  bent  their  bows, 
Their  hearts  were  good  and  true  ; 

At  the  first  flight  of  arrows  sent 
Full  fourscore  Scots  they  slew. 

Yet  bides  Earl  Douglas  on  the  bent, 
As  Chieftain  stout  and  good; 

As  valiant  captain  all  unmoved 
The  shock  he  firmly  stood. 

His  host  he  parted  had  in  three, 

As  leader  ware  and  tried, 
And  soon  his  spearmen  on  their  foes 

Bore  down  on  every  side. 

To  drive  the  deer  with    hound   and 
horn 
Douglas  bade  on  the  bent ; 
Two    captains,   moved    with    mickle 
might. 
Their  spears  to  shivers  went. 

Throughout  the  English  archery 
They  dealt  full  many  a  wound  ; 

But  still  our  valiant  Englishmen 
All  firmly  kept  their  ground  ; 

And,   throwing    straight    their    bows 
away, 
They  grasped  their  swords  so  bright, 
And     now    sharp     blows,    a     heavy 
shower,  ■ 
On  shields  and  helmets  light. 

They  closed  full  fast  on  every  side  ; 

No  slackness  there  was  found  ; 
And  many  a  gallant  gentleman 

Lay  gasping  on  the  ground. 

3] 


In  truth,  it  was  a  grief  to  see, 

And  likewise  for  to  hear, 
The  cries  of  men  lying  in  their  gore, 

And  scattered  here  and  there. 

At  last  these  two  stout  earls  did  meet. 

Like  captains  of  great  might : 
Like  lions  wood,  they  laid  on  lode, 

And  made  a  cruel  fight : 

They    fought    until    they    both    did 
sweat, 

With  swords  of  tempered  steel : 
Until  the  blood,  like  drops  of  rain. 

They  trickling  down  did  feel. 

"  Yield   thee,    Lord   Percy,"   Douglas 
said ; 

"  In  faith  I  will  thee  bring 
Where  thou  shalt  high  advanced  be 

By  James  our  Scottish  king  : 

"  Thy  ransom  I  will  freely  give, 

And  this  report  of  thee, 
Thou  art  llie  most  courageous  knight 

That  ever  I  did  see." 

"  Xo,  Douglas,"  quoth  Earl  Percy  then, 

"  Thy  proffer  I  do  scorn  : 
I  will  not  yield  to  any  Scot 

That  ever  yet  was  born." 

With  that  there  came  an  arrow  keen 

Out  of  an  English  bow, 
Which    struck   Earl   Douglas   to  the 
heart, 

A  deep  and  deadly  blow  ; 

Who  never  spake  more  words   than 
these, 

"  Fight  on,  my  merry  men  all; 
For  why,  my  life  is  at  an  end ; 

Lord  Percy  sees  my  fall." 


482 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF    POETRY. 


Then  leaving  life,  Earl  Percy  took 
The  dead  man  by  the  hand ; 

And  said,  "  Earl  Douglas,  for  thy  life 
Would  I  had  lost  my  land. 

"  In  truth,  my  very  heart  doth  bleed 
With  sorrow  for  thy  sake  ; 

For  sure,  a  more  redoubted  knight 
Mischance  could  never  take." 

A   knight   amongst    the   Scots    there 
was 
Who  saw  Earl  Douglas  die, 
Who   straight  in  wrath   did  vow  re- 
venge 
Upon  the  Earl  Percy  : 

Sir  Hugh  Mountgomery  was  he  called, 
Who  with  a  spear  most  bright, 

Well  mounted  on  a  gallant  steed, 
Ran  fiercely  through  the  fight ; 

And  past  the  English  archers  all, 
Without  all  dread  or  fear ; 

And  through  Earl  Percy's  body  then 
He  thrust  his  hateful  spear  ; 

With    such   a    vehement    force    and 
might 

He  did  his  body  gore, 
The  staff  ran  through  the  other  side 

A  large  cloth-yard,  and  more. 

So  thus  did  both  these  nobles  die, 
Whose  courage  none  could  stain  ; 

An  English  archer  then  perceived 
The  noble  Earl  was  slain. 

He  had  a  bow  bent  in  his  hand, 

Made  of  a  trusty  tree  ; 
An  arrow  of  a  cloth-yard  long 

Up  to  the  head  drew  he  : 

Against  Sir  Hugh  Mountgomery 
So  right  the  shaft  he  set, 


The  gray  goose- wing  that  was  thereon 
In  his  heart's  blood  was  wet. 

This  fight  did  last  from  break  of  day 

Till  setting  of  the  sun, 
For  when  they  rung  the  evening  bell 

The  battle  scarce  was  done. 

With   stout   Earl    Percy    there   were 
slain 

Sir  John  of  Egerton, 
Sir  Robert  Ratcliff,  and  Sir  John, 

Sir  James,  that  bold  baron  ; 

And  with    Sir   George   and  stout  Sir 
James, 

Both  knights  of  good  account, 
Good  Sir  Ralph  Raby  there  was  slain, 

Whose  prowess  did  surmount. 

For  AVitherington  my  heart  is  woe 
That  ever  he  slain  should  be, 

For  when  his  legs  were  hewn  in  two, 
Pie  knelt  and  fought  on  his  knee. 

And  with    Earl   Douglas  there  were 
slain 
Sir  Hugh  Mountgomery, 
Sir   Charles   Murray,   that  from    the 
field 
One  foot  would  never  flee. 

Sir  Charles  Murray,  of  Ratcliff,  too, 

His  sister's  son  was  he ; 
Sir  David  Lamb,  so  well  esteemed, 

Yet  saved  could  not  be. 

And  the  Lord  Maxwell'  in  like  case 
Did  with  Earl  Douglas  die ; 

Of  twenty  hundred  Scottish  spears, 
Scarce  fifty-five  did  fly. 

Of  fifteen  hundred  Englishmen, 
Went  home  but  fifty-three ; 


OLD    TALES   AND    BALLADS. 


483 


The  rest  were  slain  in  Chevy-Chase, 
Under  the  greenwood  tree. 

Next  day  did  many  widows  come, 
Their  husbands  to  bewail ; 

They  washed  their  wounds  in  brinish 
tears, 
But  all  would  not  prevail. 

Their  bodies,  bathed  in  purple  gore, 
They  bare  with  them  away  ; 

They  kissed  them  dead   a   thousand 
times 
Ere  they  were  clad  in  clay. 

The  news  was  brought  to  Edinburgh, 
Where  Scotland's  king  did  reign, 

That  brave  Earl  Douglas  suddenly 
Was  with  an  arrow  slain. 

"Oh  heavy  news!"  King  James  did  say; 

"  Scotland  may  witness  be, 
I  have  not  any  captain  more 

Of  such  account  as  he." 

Like  tidings  to  King  Henry  came, 

Within  as  short  a  space, 
That  Percy  of  Northumberland 

Was  slain  in  Chevy-Chase. 

"  NowT  God  be  with   him,"  said  our 
king, 

"  Since  it  will  no  better  be  ! 
I  trust  I  have  within  my  realm 

Five  hundred  as  good  as  he; 

"  Yet  shall  not  Scots  nor  Scotland  say, 
But  I  will  vengeance  take ; 

I'll  be  revenged  on  them  all, 
For  brave  Earl  Percy's  sake." 

This  vow  full  well  the  king  performed 

After,  at  Humbledown  ; 
In  one  day  fifty  knights  were  slain, 

With  lords  of  great  renown ; 


And  of  the  rest,  of  small  account, 

Did  many  thousands  die; 
Thus  endeth  the  hunting  of  Chevy- 
Chase, 

Made  by  the  Earl  Percy. 

God  save  our  king,  and  bless  this  land 
With  plent}',  Jovi  and  peace, 

And  grant  henceforth,  that  foul   de- 
bate 
'Twixt  noblemen  may  cease! 

THE  HEIR  OF  LINNE. 

PART    FIRST. 

Lithe  and  listen,  gentlemen, 
To  sing  a  song  I  will  begin  : 

It  is  of  a  lord  of  fair  Scotland, 

Which  was   the   unthrifty  heir  of 
Linne. 

His  father  was  a  eight  good  lord, 
His  mother  a  lady  of  high  degree ; 

But  they,  alas  !  were  dead,  him  fro, 
And  he  loved  keeping  company. 

To  spend  the  day  with  merry  cheer, 
To  drink  and  revel  every  night, 

To  card  and  dice  from  eve  to  morn. 
It  was,  I  ween,  his  heart's  delight. 

To  ride,  to  run,  to  rant,  to  roar, 
To  always  spend  and  never  spare, 

I  wot,  an  it  were  the  king  himself, 
Of  gold  and  fee  he  might  be  bare. 

So  fares  the  unthrifty  Lord  of  Linne 
Till  all  his  gold  is  gone  and  spent, 

And  he  must  sell  his  lands  so  broad, 
His  house,  and  lands,  and  all  his 
rent. 

His  father  had  a  keen  steward, 
And  John  o'  the  Scales  was  called 
he: 


484 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


But  John  is  become  a  gentleman, 
And  John  has  got  both  gold  and 
fee. 

Says,  "  Welcome,   welcome,   Lord  of 
Linne, 
Let  naught  disturb  thy  merry  cheer ; 
If  thou  wilt  sell  thy  lands  so  broad, 
Good  store  of   gold   I'll  give  thee 
here.'1 

"  My  gold  is  gone,  my  money  is  spent ; 

My  land  now  take  it  unto  thee : 
Give  me  the  gold,  good  John  o'  the 
Scales, 
And  thine  for  aye  my  land  shall 
be." 

Then   John    he   did    him   to   record 
draw, 
And  John  he  cast  him  a  god's-pen- 
ny  ; 
But    for    every     pound     that     John 
agreed, 
The   land,  I   wis,  was   well    worth 
three. 

He  told  him  the  gold  upon  the  board. 

He   was    right   glad    his    land    to 
win  ; 
"  The  gold  is  thine,  the  land  is  mine. 

And  now  I'll  be  the  Lord  of  Linne." 

Thus     he     hath     sold    his    land    so 
broad, 
Both  hill  and  holt,  and  moor  and 
fen, 
All  but  a  poor  and  lonesome  lodge, 
That    stood    far    off    in    a    lonely 
glen. 

For  so  he  to  his  father  hight. 
"  My  son,  when  I  am  gone,"  said 
he, 


"  Then  thou  wilt  spend  thy  land  so 
broad, 
And  thou  wilt  spend  thy  gold  so 
free ; 

"  But  swear  me  now  upon  the  rood, 
That  lonesome  lodge  thou'lt  never 
spend ; 
For  when  all  the  world  doth  frown  on 
thee, 
Thou   there   shalt   find    a    faithful 
friend." 

The  heir  of  Linne  is  full  of  gold  : 
And  "  Come  with  me,  my  friends," 
said  he; 
"  Let's   drink,  and   rant,   and   merry 
make, 
And  he  that  spares,  ne'er  mote  he 
thee." 

They  ranted,  drank,  and  merry  made, 

Till  all  his  gold  it  waxed  thin  ; 
And    then    his    friends    they    slunk 
away  ; 
They    left    the    unthrifty    heir   of 
Linne. 

He   had   never   a  penny  left   in   his 
purse, 
Never  a  penny  left  but  three, 
And    one    was    brass,    another    was 
lead, 
And  another  it  was  white  money. 

"  Now  well-a-day,"  said  the  heir  of 
Linne, 

"  Now  well-a-day,  and  woe  is  me, 
For  when  I  was  the  Lord  of  Linne 

I  never  wanted  gold  nor  fee. 

"  But  many  a  trusty  friend  have  I, 
And    why    should    I   feel   dole   or 
care? 


OLD    TALES   AND    BALLADS. 


485 


I'll  borrow  of  them  all  by  turns, 
So  need  I  not  be  ever  bare." 

But  one,  I  wis,  was  not  at  home; 

Another  had  paid  his  gold  away ; 
Another  called  him  thriftless  loon, 

And   bade   him  sharply  Avend  his 
way. 

"  Now  well-a-day,"  said  the  heir  of 
Linne, 

"  Now  well-a-day,  and  woe  is  me ; 
For  when  I  had  my  lands  so  broad, 

On  me  they  lived  right  merrily. 

"  To  beg  my  bread  from  door  to  door, 
I  wis,  it  were  a  burning  shame ; 

To  rob  and  steal  it  were  a  sin ; 

To  work  my  limbs  I  cannot  frame. 

"  Now  I'll  away  to  the  lonesome  lodge, 
For  there  my  father  bade  me  wend : 

When  all  the  world  should  frown  on 
me, 
I  there  should  find  a  trusty  Mend." 

PART    SECOND. 

Away  then  hied  the  heir  of  Linne 
O'er  hill  and  holt,  and  moor  and 
fen, 
Until  he  came  to  the  lonesome  lodge, 
That    stood    so    low    in   a    lonely 
glen. 

He  looked  up,  he  looked  down, 
In  hope  some  comfort  for  to  win  ; 

But  bare  and  loathly  were  the  walls. 
"  Here's  sorry  cheer,"  quo'  the  heir 
of  Linne. 

The  little  window,  dim  and  dark, 
Was    hung    with    ivy,    brier,   and 
yew; 

No  shimmering  sun  here  ever  shone, 
No  wholesome  breeze  here  ever  blew. 


No  chair,  no  table  he  mote  spy, 

No    cheerful    hearth,    no   welcome 
bed, 
Naught   save    a    rope   with    running 
noose, 
That   dangling    hung   up   o'er  his 
head. 

And  over  it,  in  broad  letters, 

These  words  were  written  so  plain 
to  see : 
"Ah !    graceless    wretch,    hast    spent 
thine  all, 
And  brought  thyself  to  penury  ? 

"All  this  my  boding  mind  misgave ; 

I  therefore  left  this  trusty  friend : 
Let  it  now  shield  thy  foul  disgrace, 

And   all   thy    shame   and    sorrows 
end." 

Sorely  vexed  with  this  rebuke, 

Sorely  vexed  was  the  heir  of  Linne ; 

His  heart,  I  wis,  was  near  to  burst 
With  guilt  and  sorrow,  shame  and 
sin. 

Never    a    word    spake    the    heir    of 
Linne, 

Never  a  word  he  spake  but  three : 
"  This  is  a  trusty  friend  indeed, 

And  is  right  welcome  unto  me." 

Then    round    his   neck  the   cord   he 
drew, 
And  sprang  aloft  with  his  body : 
When  lo !  the  ceiling  burst  in  twain, 
And  to  the  ground  came  tumbling 
he. 

Astonished  lay  the  heir  of  Linne, 
Nor  knew  if  he  were  live  or  dead ; 

At  length  he  looked,  and  saw  a  bill, 
And  in  it  a  key  of  gold  so  red. 


486 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


He  took  the  bill,  and  looked  it  on, 
Straight    good   comfort    found    he 
there : 
It  told  him  of  a  hole  in  the  wall, 
In  which  there  stood  three  chests 
in-fere. 

Two  were  full  of  the  beaten  gold, 
The  third  was  full  of  white  money ; 

And  over  them  in  broad  letters 
These  words  were  written  so  plain 

to  see : 

"  Once    more,   my    son,    I    set    thee 
clear ; 

Amend  thy  life  and  follies  past; 
For,  but  thou  amend  thee  of  thy  life, 

That  rope  must  be  thy  end  at  last." 

"And   let   it   be,"    said    the    heir   of 
Linne ; 
"  And  let  it  be,  but  if  I  amend : 
For  here  I  will  make  mine  avow, 
This  rede  shall   guide   me   to   the 
end." 

Away  then  went  with  a  merry  cheer, 
'      Away  then  went  the  heir  of  Linne; 
I  wis  he  neither  ceased  nor  stayed, 
Till  John  o'  the  Scales'  house  he  did 


And  when  he  came  to  John   o'  the 
Scales, 

Up  at  the  speere  then  looked  he ; 
There  sat  three  lords  upon  a  row, 

Were  drinking  of  the  wine  so  free. 

And  John  himself  sat  at  the  board- 
head, 
Because   now  Lord   of   Linne  was 
he. 
"  I  pray  thee,"  he  said,  "  good  John  o' 
the  Scales, 
One  forty  pence  for  to  lend  me." 


"Away,  away,  thou  thriftless  loon-; 

Away,  away,  this  may  not  be  : 
For   a   curse   be   on    my    head,"   he 
said, 

"  If  ever  I  trust  thee  one  penny." 

Then  bespake  the  heir  of  Linne, 
To   John    o'  the  Scales'  wife  then 
spake  he : 

"  Madame,  some  alms  on  me  bestow, 
I  pray  for  sweet  Saint  Charity." 

"Away,  away,  thou  thriftless  loon, 
I    swear   thou   gettest   no   alms  of 
me ; 
For    if    we    should    hang   any    losel 
here, 
The  first  we  would  begin  with  thee." 

Then  bespake  a  good  fellow, 

Which  sat  at  John  o'  the  Scales  his 
board ; 
Said,    "  Turn    again,    thou     heir    of 
Linne ; 
Some  time  thou  wast  a  well-good 
lord  : 

"  Some  time  a  good  fellow  thou  hast 
been, 

And  sparedst  not  thy  gold  and  fee ; 
Therefore  I'll  lend  thee  forty  pence, 

And  other  forty  if  need  be. 

"And  ever  I  pray  thee,  John  o'  the 
Scales, 

To  let  him  sit  in  thy  company  : 
For  well  I  wot  thou  hadst  his  land, 

And  a  good  bargain  it  was  to  thee." 

Up  then  spake  him  John  o'  the  Scales, 
All  wood  he  answered  him  again  : 

"  Now  a  curse  be  on  my  head,"  he 
said, 
"  But  I  did  lose  by  that  bargain. 


OLD    TALES   AND    BALLADS. 


487 


"  And  here  I  proffer  thee,  heir  of  Linne, 

Before  these  lords  so  fair  and  free, 
Thou  shalt  have  it  back  again  better 
cheap, 
By  a  hundred  marks,  than  I  had  it 
of  thee." 

"  I  draw  you  to  record,  lords,"  he  said. 
With  that  he  cast  him  a  god's-pen- 
ny : 
"  Now  by  my  fa}r,"  said  the  heir  of 
Linne, 
"And     here,    good    John,    is    thy 
money." 

And  he  pulled  forth  three  bags  of  gold, 
And  laid  them  down  upon  the 
board : 

All  woe  begone  was  John  o'  the  Scales, 
So  vexed  he  could  say  never  a  word. 

He  told  him  forth  the  good  red  gold, 
He  told  it  forth  with  mickle  din. 

"  The  gold  is  thine,  the  land  is  mine, 
And  now  I'm  again  the  Lord  of 
Linne." 

Says,  "  Have  thou  here,  thou  good 
fellow, 

Forty  pence  thou  didst  lend  me  : 
Now  I  am  again  the  Lord  of  Linne, 

And  forty  pounds  I  will  give  thee. 

"  I'll  make  thee  keeper  of  my  forest, 
Both  of  the  wild  deer  and  the  tame; 

For  but  I  reward  thy  bounteous  heart, 
I  wis,  good  fellow,  I  were  to  blame." 

"Now  well-a-day!"  saith  Joan  o' the 
Scales : 
"  Now  well-a-day !    and  woe  is  my 
life! 
Yesterday  I  was  Lady  of  Linne, 
Now  I'm  but  John  o'  the  Scales  his 
wife." 


"  Now  fare  thee  well,"  said  the  heir  of 
Linne ; 
"  Farewell  now,  John  o'  the  Scales," 
said  he : 
"A  curse  light  on  me  if  ever  again 
I  bring  my  lands  in  jeopardy." 


ADELGITHA. 

The  Ordeal's  fatal  trumpet  sounded, 
And  sad,  pale  Adelgitha  came, 

When     forth     a     valiant     champion 
bounded, 
And  slew  the  slanderer  of  her  fame. 

She  wept,  delivered  from  her  danger ; 
But  when  he   knelt  to    claim   her 
glove — 
"  Seek    not,"  she    cried,   "  0   gallant 
stranger, 
For  hapless  Adelgitha's  love. 

:;  For  he  is  in  a  foreign  far  land 

Whose  arm  should  now  have  set  me 
free; 

And  I  must  wear  the  willow  garland  • 
For  him  that's  dead,  or  false  to  me." 

"  Nay !    say    not    that    his    faith    is 
tainted  !"— 

He  raised  his  visor, — at  the  sight 
She  fell  into  his  arms  and  fainted ; 

It  was  indeed  her  own  true  knight. 

Thomas  Campbell. 


BRUCE  AND  THE  SPIDER. 

For    Scotland's    and    for    freedom's 
right 

The  Bruce  his  part  had  played, 
In  five  successive  fields  of  fight 

Been  conquered  and  dismayed  : 


488 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


Once  more  against  the  English  host 
His  band  he  led  ;  and  once  more  lost 

The  meed  for  which  he  fought ; 
And    now     from     battle     faint     and 

worn, 
The  homeless  fugitive  forlorn 

A  hut's  lone  shelter  sought. 

And  cheerless  was  that  resting-place 
For  him  who  claimed  a  throne  : 

His  canopy,  devoid  of  grace, 
The  rude  rough  beams  alone ; 

The  heather  couch  his  only  bed — 

Yet  well  I  ween  had  slumber  fled 
,     From  couch  of  eider  down ! 

Through  darksome  night  till  dawn  of 
day, 

Absorbed  in  wakeful  thought  he  lay 
Of  Scotland  and  her  crown. 

The  sun  rose  brightly,  and  its  gleam 

Fell  on  that  hapless  bed, 
And  tinged  with  light  each  shapeless 
beam 

Which  roofed  the  lowly  shed  ; 
When,  looking  up  with  wistful  eye, 
The  Bruce  beheld  a  spider  try 


His  filmy  thread  to  fling 
From  beam  to  beam  of  that  rude  cot ; 
And  well  the  insect's  toilsome  lot 

Taught  Scotland's  future  king. 

Six  times  his  gossamery  thread 

The  wary  spider  threw ; 
In  vain  the  filmy  line  was  sped, 

For  powerless  or  untrue 
Each  aim  appeared,  and  back  recoiled 
The  patient  insect,  six  times  foiled, 

And  yet  unconquered  still ; 
And  soon  the  Bruce,  with  eager  eye, 
Saw  him  prepare  once  more  to  try 

His  courage,  strength,  and  skill. 

One  effort  more,  his  seventh  and  last ! 

The  hero  hailed  the  sign, 
And  on   the   wished-for   beam   hung 
fast 

That  slender  silken  line: 
Slight  as  it  was,  his  spirit  caught 
The  more  than  omen,  for  his  thought 

The  lesson  well  could  trace, 

Which  even  "he  who  runs  may  read," 

That  Perseverance  gains  its  meed, 

And  Patience  wins  the  race. 

Bernard  Barton. 


Some  Famous  Poems 


FOR    THE 


OLDER    CHILDREN 


Some  Famous  Poems 


FOR   THE 


Older  Children 


THE  DIVERTING  HISTORY  OF  JOHN 
GILPIN, 

SHOWING  HOW  HE  WENT  FARTHER  THAN 
HE  INTENDED,  AND  CAME  SAFE  HOME 
AGAIN. 

John  Gilpin  was  a  citizen 

Of  credit  and  renown  ; 
A  trainband  captain  eke  was  he 

Of  famous  London  town. 

John  Gilpin's  spouse  said  to  her  dear — 
"  Though  wedded  we  have  been 

These  twice  ten  tedious  years,  yet  we 
No  holiday  have  seen. 

"  To-morrow  is  our  wedding-day, 

And  we  will  then  repair 
Unto  the  Bell  at  Edmonton 

All  in  a  chaise  and  pair. 

"My  sister  and  my  sister's  child, 
Myself  and  children  three, 

Will  fill  the  chaise  ;  so  you  must  ride 
On  horseback  after  we." 

He  soon  replied,  "  I  do  admire 

Of  womankind  but  one. 
And  you  are  she,  my  dearest  dear  : 

Therefore  it  shall  be  done. 

"  I  am  a  linendraper  bold, 
As  all  the  world  doth  know ; 


And  my  good  friend,  the  calender, 
Will  lend  his  horse  to  go." 

Quoth  Mrs.  Gilpin,  "  That's  well  said  ; 

And,  for  that  wine  is  dear, 
We  will  be  furnished  with  our  own, 

Which  is  both  bright  and  clear." 

John  Gilpin  kissed  his  loving  wife  ; 

O'erjoyed  was  he  to  find 
That,  though  on  pleasure  she  was  bent, 

She  had  a  frugal  mind. 

The   morning  came,  the   chaise   was 
brought, 

But  yet  was  not  allowed 
To  drive  up  to  the  door,  lest  all 

Should  say  that  she  was  proud. 

So  three  doors  off  the  chaise  was  stayed. 
Where  they  did  all  get  in — 

Six  precious  souls,  and  all  agog 
To  dash  through  thick  and  thin. 

Smack  went  the  whip,  round  went  the 
wheel — 

Were  never  folks  so  glad ; 
The  stones  did  rattle  underneath, 

As  if  Cheapside  were  mad. 

John  Gilpin  at  his  horse's  side 
Seized  fast  the  flowing  mane, 

And  up  he  got,  in  haste  to  ride — 
But  soon  came  down  again ; 

491 


492 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF  POETRY. 


For  saddletree  scarce  reached  had  he, 

His  journey  to  begin, 
When,  turning  round  his  head,  he  saw 

Three  customers  come  in. 

So  down  he  came  ;  for  loss  of  time, 
Although  it  grieved  him  sore, 

Yet  loss  of  pence,  full  well  he  knew, 
Would  trouble  him  much  more. 

Twas  long  before  the  customers 
Were  suited  to  their  mind  ; 

When  Betty,  screaming,  came  down 
stairs — 
"  The  wine  is  left  behind !" 

"  Good  lack !"  quoth  he — "  yet  bring 
it  me, 

My  leathern  belt  likewise, 
In  which  I  bear  my  trusty  sword 

When  I  do  exercise." 

Now  Mistress  Gilpin  (careful  soul !) 
Had  two  stone  bottles  found, 

To  hold  the  liquor  that  she  loved, 
And  keep  it  safe  and  sound. 

Each  bottle  had  a  curling  ear, 
Through  which  the  belt  he  drew, 

And  hung  a  bottle  on  each  side, 
To  make  his  balance  true. 

Then  over  all,  that  he  might  be 

Equipped  from  top  to  toe, 
His  long  red  cloak,  well  brushed  and 
neat, 

He  manfully  did  throw. 

Now  see  him  mounted  once  again 

Upon  his  nimble  steed, 
Full  slowly  pacing  o'er  the  stones, 

With  caution  and  good  heed. 

But  finding  soon  a  smoother  road 
Beneath  his  well-shod  feet, 

The  snorting  beast  began  to  trot, 
Which  galled  him  in  his  seat. 


So  "  Fair  and  softly,"  John  he  cried, 
But  John  he  cried  in  vain ; 

That  trot  became  a  gallop  soon, 
In  spite  of  curb  and  rein. 

So  stooping  down,  as  needs  he  must 

Who  cannot  sit  upright, 
He  grasped  the  mane  with  both  his 
hands, 

And  eke  with  all  his  might. 

His  horse,  who  never  in  that  sort 

Had  handled  been  before, 
What  thing  upon  his  back  had  got 

Did  wonder  more  and  more. 

Away  went  Gilpin,  neck  or  naught; 

Away  went  hat  and  wig ; 
He  little  dreamt,  when  he  set  out, 

Of  running  such  a  rig. 

The  wind  did  blow — the  cloak  did  fly 
Like  streamer  long  and  gay ; 

Till,  loop  and  button  failing  both, 
At  last  it  flew  away. 

Then  might  all  people  well  discern 
The  bottles  he  had  slung — 

A  bottle  swinging  at  each  side, 
As  hath  been  said  or  sung. 

The    dogs    did     bark,    the    children 
screamed, 

Up  flew  the  windows  all ; 
And  every  soul  cried  out, "  Well  done !" 

As  loud  as  he  could  bawl. 

Away  went  Gilpin — who  but  he? 

His  fame  soon  spread  around — 
"  He  carries  weight !  he  rides  a  race  ! 

'Tis  for  a  thousand  pound  !" 

And  still  as  fast  as  he  drew  near, 

'Twas  wonderful  to  view 
How  in  a  trice  the  turnpike-men 

Their  gates  wide  open  threw. 


FAMOUS   POEMS    FOR    OLDER    CHILDREN. 


493 


And  now,  as  he  went  bowing  down 
His  reeking  head  full  low, 

The  bottles  twain  behind  his  back 
Were  shattered  at  a  blow. 


Down  ran  the  wine  into  the  road, 

Most  piteous  to  be  seen, 
Which  made  his  horse's  flanks  to  smoke 

As  thev  had  basted  been. 


But  still  he  seemed  to  carry  weight, 
With  leathern  girdle  braced ; 

For  all  might  see  the  bottle-necks 
Still  dangling  at  his  waist. 

Thus  all  through  merry  Islington 
These  gambols  he  did  play, 

Until  he  came  unto  the  Wash 
Of  Edmonton  so  gay  ; 


And  there  he  threw  the  wash  about 

On  both  sides  of  the  way, 
Just  like  unto  a  trundling  mop, 

Or  a  wild  goose  at  play. 

At  Edmonton  his  loving  wife 

From  the  balcony  spied 
Her  tender  husband,  wondering  much 

To  see  how  he  did  ride. 


494 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


"  Stop,  stop,  John  Gilpin !  here's  the 
house," 

They  all  at  once  did  cry  ; 
"  The  dinner  waits,  and  we  are  tired  :" 

Said  Gilpin—"  So  am  I !" 

But  yet  his  horse  was  not  a  whit 

Inclined  to  tarry  there ; 
For  why  ? — his  owner  had  a  house 

Full  ten  miles  off,  at  Ware. 

So  like  an  arrow  swift  he  flew, 

Shot  by  an  archer  strong  ; 
So  did  he  fly — which  brings  me  to 

The  middle  of  my  song. 

Away  went  Gilpin  out  of  breath, 

And  sore  against  his  will, 
Till  at  his  friend's  the  calender's 

His  horse  at  last  stood  still. 

The  calender,  amazed  to  see 
His  neighbor  in  such  trim, 

Laid  down  his  pipe,  flew  to  the  gate, 
And  thus  accosted  him  : 

"What  news?  what  news?  your  tid- 
ings tell ; 

Tell  me  yo*u  must  and  shall— 
Say  why  bareheaded  you  are  come, 

Or  why  you  come  at  all  ?" 

Now  Gilpin  had  a  pleasant  wit, 

And  loved  a  timely  joke ; 
And  thus  unto  the  calender 

In  merry  guise  he  spoke : 

"  I   came  because  your  horse  would 
come ; 

And,  if  I  well  forbode, 
My  hat  and  wig  will  soon  be  here ; 

They  are  upon  the  road." 

The  calender,  right  glad  to  find 

His  friend  in  merry  pin, 
Returned  him  not  a  single  word, 

But  to  the  house  went  in ; 


Whence  straight  he  came  with  hat  and 
wig— 

A  wig  that  flowed  behind, 
A  hat  not  much  the  worse  for  wear — 

Each  comely  in  its  kind. 

He  held  them  up,  and  in  his  turn 
Thus  showed  his  ready  wit : 

"  My  head  is  twice  as  big  as  yours, 
They  therefore  needs  must  fit. 

"  But  let  me  scrape  the  dirt  away 
That  hangs  upon  your  face ; 

And  stop  and  eat,  for  well  you  may 
Be  in  a  hungry  case." 

Said  John,  "  It  is  my  wedding-da}r, 
And  all  the  world  would  stare 

If  wife  should  dine  at  Edmonton 
And  I  should  dine  at  Ware." 

So  turning  to  his  horse,  he  said, 

"  I  am  in  haste  to  dine ; 
'Twas    for   your   pleasure    you    came 
here — 

You  shall  go  back  for  mine." 

Ah,    luckless    speech     and     bootless 
boast, 

For  which  he  paid  full  dear ! 
For,  while  he  spake,  a  braying  ass 

Did  sing  most  loud  and  clear ; 

Whereat  his  horse  did  snort,  as  he 

Had  heard  a  lion  roar, 
And  galloped  off  with  all  his  might, 

As  he  had  done  before. 

Away  went  Gilpin,  and  away 
Went  Gilpin's  hat  and  wig : 

He  lost  them  sooner  than  at  first, 
For  why  ? — they  were  too  big. 

Now,  Mistress  Gilpin,  when  she  saw 
Her  husband  posting  down 

Into  the  country  far  away, 
She  pulled  out  half  a  crown ; 


FAMOUS   POEMS   FOR    OLDER    CHILDREN. 


495 


And  thus  unto  the  youth  she  said 
That  drove  them  to  the  Bell : 

"  This  shall  be  yours  when  you  bring 
back 
My  husband  safe  and  well.1' 

The   youth  did    ride,   and   soon   did 
meet 

John  coming  back  amain — 
Whom  in  a  trice  he  tried  to  stop 

By  catching  at  his  rein ; 

But  not  performing  what  he  meant, 
And  gladly  would  have  done, 

The  frighted  steed  he  frighted  more, 
And  made  him  faster  run. 

Away  went  Gilpin,  and  away 
Went  post-boy  at  his  heels, 

The  post-boy's  horse  right  glad  to  miss 
The  lumbering  of  the  wheels. 

Six  gentlemen  upon  the  road, 

Thus  seeing  Gilpin  fly, 
With  post-boy  scampering  in  the  rear, 

They  raised  the  hue  and  cry  : 

"  Stop  thief!  stop  thief! — a  highway- 
man !" 
Not  one  of  them  was  mute; 
And   all  and  each  that  passed  that 
way 
Did  join  in  the  pursuit. 

And  now  the  turnpike-gates  again 
Flew  open  in  short  space : 

The  toll-men  thinking  as  before 
That  Gilpin  rode  a  race. 

And  so  he  did,  and  won  it  too, 

For  he  got  first  to  town ; 
Nor  stopped   till  where  he   had   got 
up 

He  did  again  get  down. 


Now  let  us  sing,  Long  live  the  king ! 

And  Gilpin,  long  live  he  ! 
And  when  he  next  doth  ride  abroad, 

May  I  be  there  to  see  ! 


William  Cowper. 


HOW  THEY  BROUGHT  THE  GOOD  NEWS 
FROM  GHENT  TO  AIX. 

I  sprang  to  the  stirrup,  and  Joris  and 
he; 

I  galloped,  Dirck  galloped,  we  gal- 
loped all  three ; 

"  Good  speed  !"  cried  the  watch  as  the 
gate-bolts  undrew, 

"  Speed !"  echoed  the  wall  to  us  gallop- 
ing through. 

Behind  shut  the  postern,  the  lights 
sank  to  rest, 

And  into  the  midnight  we  galloped 
abreast. 

Not  a  word  to  each  other ;  we  kept  the 

great  pace — 
Neck  by  neck,  stride  by  stride,  never 

changing  our  place ; 
I  turned  in  my  saddle  and  made  its 

girths  tight, 
Then  shortened  each  stirrup  and  set 

the  pique  right, 


4% 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


Rebuckled   the   check-strap,  chained 

slacker  the  bit, 
Nor  galloped  less  steadily  Roland  a 

whit. 

'Twas  moonset  at  starting ;  but  while 

we  drew  near 
Lokeren,  the  cocks  crew  and  twilight 

dawned  clear ; 
At  Boom  a  great  yellow  star  came  out 

to  see ; 
At  Diiffeld  'twas  morning  as  plain  as 

could  be ; 
And  from  Mecheln  church-steeple  we 

heard  the  half-chime — 
So  Joris  broke  silence  with,  "  Yet  there 

is  time !" 

At  Aershot  up  leaped  of  a  sudden  the 
sun, 

And  against  him  the  cattle  stood  black 
every  one, 

To  stare  through  the  mist  at  us  gal- 
loping past ; 

And  I  saw  my  stout  galloper  Roland 
at  last, 

With  resolute  shoulders,  each  butting 
away 

The  haze,  as  some  bluff  river-headland 
its  spray ; 

And  his  low  head  and  crest,  just  one 
sharp  ear  bent  back 

For  my  voice,  and  the  other  pricked 
out  on  his  track  ; 

And  one  eye's  black  intelligence — ever 
that  glance 

O'er  its  white  edge  at  me,  his  own  mas- 
ter, askance ; 

And  the  thick,  heavy  spume-flakes, 
which  aye  and  anon 

His  fierce  lips  shook  upward  in  gal- 
loping on. 


By  Hasselt  Dirck  groaned,  and  cried 
Joris,  "  Stay  spur  ! 

Your  Roos  galloped  bravely ;  the  fault's 
not  in  her ; 

We'll  remember  at  Aix  "  —  for  one 
heard  the  quick  wheeze 

Of  her  chest,  saw  the  stretched  neck 
and  staggering  knees, 

And  sunk  tail,  and  horrible  heave  of 
the  flank, 

As  down  on  her  haunches  she  shud- 
dered and  sank. 

So  we  were  left  galloping,  Joris  and  I, 

Past  Looz  and  past  Tongres,  no  cloud 
in  the  sky ; 

The  broad  sun  above  laughed  a  piti- 
less laugh ; 

'Neath  our  feet  broke  the  brittle,  bright 
stubble  like  chaff, 

Till  over  by  Dalhem  a  dome-spire 
sprang  white, 

And  "  Gallop  !"  gasped  Joris,  "  for  Aix 
is  in  sight !" 

"  How  they'll  greet  us  !" — and  all  in  a 
moment  his  roan, 

Rolled  neck  and  croup  over,  lay  dead 
as  a  stone ; 

And  there  was  my  Roland  to  bear  the 
whole  weight 

Of  the  news  which  alone  could  save 
Aix  from  her  fate, 

With  his  nostrils  like  pits  full  of  blood 
to  the  brim, 

And  with  circles  of  red  for  his  eye- 
sockets'  rim. 

Then  I  cast  loose  my  buff-coat,  each 

holster  let  fall, 
Shook  off  both  my  jack  boots,  let  go 

belt  and  all, 


FAMOUS   POEMS   FOR    OLDER    CHILDREN. 


497 


Stood  up  in  the  stirrup,  leaned,  patted 
his  ear, 

Called  my  Roland  his  pet  name,  my 
horse  without  peer, 

Clapped  my  hands,  laughed  and  sang, 
any  noise,  had  or  good, 

Till  at  length  into  Aix  Roland  gal- 
loped and  stood. 

And  all  I  remember  is  friends  flocking 
round, 

As  I  sat  with  his  head  'twixt  my 
knees  on  the  ground; 

And  no  voice  but  was  praising  this 
Roland  of  mine, 

As  I  poured  down  his  throat  our  last 
measure  of  wine, 

Which  (the  burgesses  voted  by  com- 
mon consent) 

Was  no  more  than  his  due  who 
brought  good  news  from  Ghent. 

Robert  Browxing. 


ELEGY  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  MAD 
DOG. 

Good  people  all,  of  even^  sort, 

Give  ear  unto  my  song  ; 
And  if  you  find  it  wond'rous  short 

It  cannot  hold  you  long. 

In  Islington  there  was  a  man, 
Of  whom  the  world  might  say 

That  still  a  godly  race  he  ran 
Whene'er  he  went  to  pray. 

A  kind  and  gentle  heart  he  had. 
To  comfort  friends  and  foes ; 

The  naked  every  day  he  clad 
When  he  put  on  his  clothes. 

And  in  that  town  a  dog  was  found. 
As  many  dogs  there  be, 

32 


Both    mongrel,   puppy,    whelp,    and 
hound, 
And  curs  of  low  degree. 

This  dog'and  man  at  first  were  friends ; 

But  when  a  pique  began, 
The  dog,  to  gain  some  private  ends, 

Went  mad,  and  bit  the  man. 

Around    from    all    the     neighboring 
streets 

The  wondering  neighbors  ran, 
And  swore  the  dog  had  lost  his  wits, 

To  bite  so  good  a  man. 

The  wound  it  seemed  both  sore  and  sad 

To  every  Christian  eye  ; 
And  while  they  swore  the  dog  was  mad. 

They  swore  the  man  would  die. 

But  soon  a  wonder  came  to  light, 
That  showed  the  rogues  they  lied : 

The  man  recovered  of  the  bite, 
The  clog  it  was  that  died. 

Oliver  Goldsmith. 


THE  SANDS  OF  DEE. 

"  Oh,  Mary,   go   and  call  the  cattle 
home, 
And  call  the  cattle  home, 
And  call  the  cattle  home, 
Across  the  sands  of  Dee !" 
The  western  wind  was  Avild  and  dank 
with  foam, 
And  all  alone  went  she. 

The  western  tide  crept  up  along  the 
sand, 
And  o'er  and  o'er  the  sand, 
And  round  and  round  the  sand, 
As  far  as  eye  could  see  ; 
The  rolling  mist  came  down  and  hid 
the  land — 
And  never  home  came  she. 


498 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


"  Oh,  is  it  weed,  or  fish,  or  floating 
hair — 
A  tress  of  golden  hair, 
A  drowned  maiden's  hair, 
Above  the  nets  at  sea  ?" 
Was  never  salmon  yet  that  shone  so 
fair 
Among  the  stakes  on  Dee. 

They  rowed  her  in  across  the  rolling 
foam, 
The  cruel,  crawling  foam, 
The  cruel,  hungry  foam, 
To  her  grave  beside  the  sea  : 
But  still  the  boatmen  hear  her  call  the 
cattle  home, 
Across  the  sands  of  Dee. 

Charles  Kingsley. 


THE  INCHCAPE  ROCK. 
No  stir  in  the  air,  no  stir  in  the  sea, 
The  ship  was  still  as  she  could  be ; 
Her  sails  from  heaven  received  no  mo- 
tion, 
Her  keel  was  steady  in  the  ocean. 

Without  either  sign  or  sound  of  their 

shock 
The  waves  flowed  over  the  Inchcape 

Rock; 
So  little  they  rose,  so  little  they  fell, 
They  did  not  move  the  Inchcape  Bell. 

The  Abbot  of  Aberbrothok 

Had  placed  that  bell  on  the  Inchcape 

Rock; 
On  a  buoy  in  the  storm  it  floated  and 

swung, 
And  over  the  waves  its  warning  rung. 

When  the  rock  was  hid  by  the  surges' 

swell, 
The  mariners  heard  the  warning  bell, 


And  then  they  knew  the  perilous  rock, 
And  blessed  the  Abbot  of  Aberbro- 
thok. 

The  sun  in  heaven  was  shining  gay, 
All  things  were  joyful  on  that  day ; 
The  sea-birds  screamed  as  they  wheeled 

round, 
And  there  was  joy  aunce  in  their  sound. 

The  buoy  of  the  Inchcape  Bell  was 

seen 
A  darker  speck  on  the  ocean  green ; 
Sir  Ralph  the  Rover  walked  his  deck, 
And  he  fixed  his  eye  on  the  darker 

speck. 

He  felt  the  cheering  power  of  spring, 
It  made   him  whistle,  it  made   him 

sing, 
His  heart  was  mirthful  to  excess, 
But  the  Rover's  mirth  was  wicked- 
ness. 

His  eye  was  on  the  Inchcape  float ; 

Quoth  he,  "  My  men,  put  out  the 
boat, 

And  row  me  to  the  Inchcape  Rock, 

And  I'll  plague  the  Abbot  of  Aber- 
brothok." 

The    boat   is    lowered,   the   boatmen 

row, 
And  to  the  Inchcape  Rock  they  go ; 
Sir  Ralph  bent  over  from  the  boat, 
And  he  cut  the  bell  from  the  Inchcape 

float. 

Down  sank  the  bell  with  a  gurgling 
sound, 

The  bubbles  rose  and  burst  around ; 

Quoth  Sir  Ralph,  "  The  next  who 
comes  to  the  Rock 

Won't  bless  the  Abbot  of  Aberbro- 
thok." 


FAMOUS    POEMS    FOR    OLDER    CHILDREN. 


499 


Sir  Ralph  the  Rover  sailed  away, 
He  scoured  the  seas  for  many  a  day. 
And  now,  grown  rich  with  plundered 

store, 
He  steers  his   course  for  Scotland's 

shore. 

So  thick  a  haze  o'erspreads  the  sky 
They  cannot  see  the  sun  on  high ; 
The  wind  hath  blown  a  gale  all  day, 
At  evening  it  hath  died  away. 

On  the  deck  the  Rover  takes  his  stand  ; 
So  dark  it  is  they  see  no  land. 
Quoth  Sir  Ralph,  "  It  will  be  lighter 

soon, 
For  there  is  the  dawn  of  the  rising 

moon." 

"  Canst  hear,"  said  one, "  the  breakers 

roar  ? 
For  methinks  we  should  be  near  the 

shore." 
"  Now,  where  we  are  I  cannot  tell, 
But  I  wish  I  could  hear  the  Inchcape 

Bell." 

They   hear   no   sound,   the    swell    is 

strong, 
Though  the  wind   hath   fallen,   they 

drift  along 
Till  the  vessel  strikes  with  a  shivering 

shock, — 
"  0  Death !  it  is  the  Inchcape  Rock." 

Sir  Ralph  the  Rover  tore  his  hair, 
He  cursed  himself  in  his  despair ; 
The  waves  rush  in  on  every  side, 
The  ship  is  sinking  beneath  the  tide. 

But,  even  in  his  dying  fear, 

One  dreadful  sound  could  the  Rover 

hear — 
A  sound  as  if,  with  the  Inchcape  Bell, 
The  Devil  below  was  ringing  his  knell. 

Robert  Southey. 


THE  LOSS  OF  THE  ROYAL  GEORGE. 

Toll  for  the  brave ! 

The  brave  that  are  no  more ! 
All  sunk  beneath  the  wave, 

Fast  by  their  native  shore  ! 

Eight  hundred  of  the  brave, 
Whose  courage  well  was  tried, 

Had  made  the  vessel  heel, 
And  laid  her  on  her  side. 

A  land-breeze  shook  the  shrouds, 

And  she  was  overset ; 
Down  went  the  Royal  George, 

With  all  her  crew  conrplete. 

Toll  for  the  brave  ! 

Brave  Kempenfelt  is  gone; 
His  last  sea-fight  is  fought, 

His  work  of  glory  done. 

It  was  not  in  the  battle ; 

No  tempest  gave  the  shock ; 
She  sprang  no  fatal  leak  ; 

She  ran  upon  no  rock. 

His  sword  was  in  its  sheath, 

His  fingers  held  the  pen, 
When  Kempenfelt  went  down. 

With  twice  four  hundred  men. 

Weigh  the  vessel  up, 

Once  dreaded  by  our  foes ! 

And  mingle  with  our  cup 
The  tear  that  England  owes. 

Her  timbers  yet  are  sound, 

And  she  may  float  again, 
Full  charged  with  England's  thunder. 

And  plough  the  distant  main. 

But  Kempenfelt  is  gone, 

His  victories  are  o'er  ;    . 
And  he  and  his  eight  hundred 

Shall  plough  the  waves  no  more. 

William  Cowper. 


500 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


THE  BATTLE  OF  BLENHEIM. 
It  was  a  summer  evening, — 

Old  Kaspar's  work  was  done, 
And  he  before  his  cottage-door 

Was  sitting  in  the  sun  ; 
And  by  him  sported  on  the  green 
His  little  grandchild  Wilhelmine. 

She  saw  her  brother  Peterkin 
Roll  something  large  and  round, 

Which  he  beside  the  rivulet, 
In  playing  there,  had  found  ; 

He  came  to  ask  what  he  had  found 

That  was  so  large  and  smooth   and 
round. 

Old  Kaspar  took  it  from  the  boy, 

Who  stood  expectant  by  ; 
And    then    the   old   man   shook   his 
head, 
And,  with  a  natural  sigh, — 
"  'Tis  some  poor  fellow's  skull,"  said 

he, 
"  Who  fell  in  the  great  victory. 

"  I  find  them  in  the  garden, 
For  there's  many  hereabout ; 

And  often,  when  I  go  to  plough, 
The  ploughshare  turns  them  out ; 

For  many  thousand  men,"  said  he, 

"  Were  slain  in  that  great  victory." 

"  Now  tell  us  what  'twas  all  about," 

Young  Peterkin  he  cries ; 
And  little  Wilhelmine  looks  up 

With  wonder-waiting  eyes — 
"  Now  tell  us  all  about  the  war, 
And  what  they  fought  each  other  for." 

"  It  was  the  English,"  Kaspar  cried, 
"  Who  put  the  French  to  rout ; 

But  what  they  fought  each  other  for 
I  could  not  well  make  out ; 

But  everybody  said,"  quoth  he, 

"  That  'twas  a  famous  victory. 


"  My  father  lived  at  Blenheim  then, 
Yon  little  stream  hard  by ; 

They  burnt  his  dwelling  to  the  ground. 
And  he  was  forced  to  fly ; 

So  with  his  wife  and  child  he  fled, 

Nor  had  he  where  to  rest  his  head. 

"  With  fire  and  sword  the  country  round 

Was  wasted  far  and  wide  ; 
And  many  a  childing  mother  then 

And  new-born  baby  died ; 
But  things  like  that,  you  know,  must  be 
At  every  famous  victory. 

"  They  say  it  was  a  shocking  sight 

After  the  field  was  won, — 
For  many  thousand  bodies  here 

Lay  rotting  in  the  sun  ; 
But  things  like  that,  you  know,  must  be 
After  a  famous  victory. 

"Great  praise  the  Duke  of  Marlbro'  won. 

And  our  good  prince  Eugene." 
"  Why,  'twas  a  very  wicked  thing  !" 

Said  little  Wilhelmine. 
"  Nay,  nay,  my  little  girl !"  quoth  he, 
"  It  was  a  famous  victory. 

"  And  everybody  praised  the  duke 
Who  this  great  fight  did  win." 

"  But  what  good  came  of  it  at  last?" 
Quoth  little  Peterkin. 

"Why,  that  I  cannot  tell,"  said  he ; 

"  But  'twas  a  famous  victory." 

Robert  Southey. 

THE  CHARGE  OF  THE  LIGHT  BRIGADE. 

Half  a  league,  half  a  league, 
Half  a  league  onward, 
All  in  the  valley  of  Death 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 
"  Forward,  the  Light  Brigade  ! 
Charge  for  the  guns !"  he  said : 
Into  the  valley  of  Death 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 


FAMOUS    POEMS   FOE    OLDER    CHILDREN. 


501 


"  Forward  the  Light  Brigade !" 
Was  there  a  man  dismayed  ? 
Not  though  the  soldier  knew 

Some  one  had  blundered. 
Theirs  not  to  make  reply, 
Theirs  not  to  reason  why, 
Theirs  but  to  do  and  die : 
Into  the  valley  of  Death 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 

Cannon  to  right  of  them, 
Cannon  to  left  of  them, 
Cannon  in  front  of  them, 

Volleyed  and  thundered ; 
Stormed  at  with  shot  and  shell, 
Boldly  they  rode  and  well, 
Into  the  jaws  of  Death, 
Into  the  mouth  of  Hell, 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 

Flashed  all  their  sabres  bare, 
Flashed  as  they  turned  in  air, 
Sabring  the  gunners  there, 
Charging  an  army,  while 

All  the  world  wondered. 
Plunged  in  the  battery  smoke, 
Right  through  the  line  they  broke : 
Cossack  and  Russian 
Reeled  from  the  sabre-stroke, 

Shattered  and  sundered. 
Then  they  rode  back,  but  not, 

Not  the  six  hundred. 

Cannon  to  right  of  them, 
Cannon  to  left  of  them, 
Cannon  behind  them, 

Volleyed  and  thundered. 
Stormed  at  with  shot  and  shell, 
"While  horse  and  hero  fell, 
They  that  had  fought  so  well 
Came  through  the  jaws  of  Death, 
Back  from  the  mouth  of  Hell, 
All  that  was  left  of  them, 

Left  of  six  hundred. 


When  can  their  glory  fade  ? 
Oh,  the  wild  charge  they  made  ! 

All  the  world  wondered. 
Honor  the  charge  they  made  ! 
Honor  the  Light  Brigade ! 

Noble  six  hundred ! 

Alfred  Tennyson. 


THE   DESTRUCTION  OF  SENNACHERIB. 

The  Assyrian  came  down  like  the  wolf 

on  the  fold, 
And  his  cohorts  were  gleaming  with 

purple  and  gold, 
And  the  sheen  of  their  spears  was  like 

stars  on  the  sea, 
When  the  blue  wave  rolls  nightly  on 

deep  Galilee. 

Like  the  leaves  of  the  forest  when  sum- 
mer is  green, 

That  host  with  their  banners  at  sunset 
were  seen ; 

Like  the  leaves  of  the  forest  when  au- 
tumn hath  blown, 

That  host  on  the  morrow  lay  withered 
and  strown. 

For  the  angel  of  Death  spread  his  wings 

on  the  blast, 
And  breathed  in  the  face  of  the  foe  as 

he  passed ; 
And  the  eyes  of  the  sleepers  waxed 

deadly  and  chill. 
And  their  hearts  but  once  heaved,  and 

for  ever  were  still. 

And  there  lay  the  steed  with  his  nos- 
trils all  wide, 

But  through  them  there  rolled  not  the 
breath  of  his  pride  ; 

And  the  foam  of  his  gasping  lay  white 
on  the  turf, 

And  cold  as  the  spray  of  the  rock-beat- 
ing surf. 


502 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


And  there  lay  the  rider,  distorted  and 
pale, 

With  the  dew  on  his  brow,  and  the 
rust  on  his  mail, 

And  the  tents  were  all  silent,  the  ban- 
ners alone, 

The  lances  unlifted,  the  trumpet  un- 
blown. 

And  the  widows  of  Ashur  are  loud  in 

their  wail, 
And  the  idols  are  broke  in  the  temple 

of  Baal, 
And  the  might  of  the  Gentile,  unsmote 

by  the  sword, 
Hath  melted  like  snow  in  the  glance 

of  the  Lord ! 

Lord  Byron. 

LOCHINVAR. 

Oh,  young  Lochinvar  is  come  out  of 

the  West, 
Through  all  the  wide  Border  his  steed 

was  the  best, 
And,  save  his   good  broadsword,  he 

weapons  had  none ; 
He  rode  all  unarmed,  and  he  rode  all 

alone. 
So  faithful  in  love,  and  so  dauntless 

in  war, 
There  never  was  knight  like  the  young 

Lochinvar. 

He  stayed  not  for  brake,  and  he  stop- 
ped not  for  stone, 

He  swam  the  Esk  river  where  ford 
there  was  none ; 

But  ere  he  alighted  at  Netherby  gate, 

The  bride  had  consented,  the  gallant 
came  late : 

For  a  laggard  in  love  and  a  dastard  in 
war 

Was  to  wed  the  fair  Ellen  of  young 
Lochinvar. 


So  boldly  he  entered   the   Netherby 

Hall, 
Among  brides-men,  and  kinsmen,  and 

brothers,  and  all ; 
Then  spoke  the  bride's  father,  his  hand 

on  his  sword 
(For  the  poor  craven  bridegroom  said 

never  a  word) : 
"  Oh,  come  ye  in  peace  here,  or  come 

ye  in  war, 
Or  to  dance  at  our  bridal,  young  Lord 

Lochinvar  ?" 

"  I  long  wooed  your  daughter,  my  suit 

you  denied ; 
Love  swells  like  the  Solway,  but  ebbs 

like  its  tide ; 
And  now  am  I  come,  with  this  lost 

love  of  mine 
To  lead  but  one  measure,  drink  one 

cup  of  wine. 
There  are  maidens  in  Scotland  more 

lovely  by  far, 
That  would  gladly  be   bride   to   the 

young  Lochinvar." 

The  bride  kissed  the  goblet :  the  knight 

took  it  up, 
He  quaffed  off  the  wine,  and  he  threw 

down  the  cup. 
She  looked  down  to  blush,  and  she 

looked  up  to  sigh, 
With  a  smile  on  her  lips  and  a  tear  in 

her  eye. 
He  took  her  soft  hand,  ere  her  mother 

could  bar; 
"  Now  tread  we  a  measure !"  said  young 

Lochinvar. 

So  stately  his  form,  and  so  lovely  her 

face, 
That  never  a  hall  such  a  galliard  did 

grace ; 


FAMOUS   POEMS    FOR    OLDER    CHILDREN. 


503 


While  her  mother  did  fret,  and  her 

father  did  fume, 
And   the  bridegroom  stood  dangling 

his  bonnet  and  plume  ; 
And    the    bride-maidens    whispered, 

"  'Twere  better  by  far 
To  have  matched  our  fair  cousin  with 

young  Lochinvar." 

One  touch  to  her  hand,  and  one  word 

in  her  ear, 
When  they  reached  the  hall-door,  and 

the  charger  stood  near ; 
.So  light  to  the  croup  the  fair  lady  he 

swung, 
So  light  to  the  saddle  before  her  he 

sprung ! 
>;  She  is  won !     We  are  gone,  over  bank, 

bush,  and  scaur ; 
They'll  have  fleet  steeds  that  follow," 

quoth  young  Lochinvar. 

There  was  mounting  'mong  Graemes 

of  the  Netherby  clan ; 
Forsters,   Fenwicks,   and    Musgraves, 

they  rode  and  they  ran  : 
There  was  racing  and  chasing  on  Can- 

nobie  Lea, 
But  the  lost  bride  of  Netherby  ne'er 

did  they  see. 
So  daring  in  love,  and  so  dauntless  in 

war, 
Have  ye  e'er   heard   of   gallant  like 

young  Lochinvar  ? 

Sir  Walter  Scott. 


LORD  ULLIN'S  DAUGHTER. 

A  chieftain  to  the  Highlands  bound 
Cries,  "  Boatman,  do  not  tarry  !  • 

And  I'll  give  thee  a  silver  pound 
To  row  us  o'er  the  ferry." 


"  Now  who  be  ye  would  cross  Lochgyle, 
This  dark  and  stormy  water  ?" 

"  Oh,  I'm  the  chief  of  Ulva's  isle, 
And  this  Lord  Ullin's  daughter. 

"  And  fast  before  her  father's  men 
Three  days  we've  fled  together, 

For  should  he  find  us  in  the  glen, 
My  blood  would  stain  the  heather. 

"  His  horsemen  hard  behind  us  ride ; 

Should  the}'  our  steps  discover, 
Then  who  will  cheer  my  bonny  bride 

When  they  have  slain  her  lover?" 

Out  spoke  the  hardy  Highland  wight, 
"  I'll  go,  my  chief,  I'm  ready ; 

It  is  not  for  your  silver  bright, 
But  for  your  winsome  lady  ; 

"  And,  by  my  word,  the  bonny  bird 

In  danger  shall  not  tarry  : 
So,  though  the  waves  are  raging  white, 

I'll  row  you  o'er  the  fern-." 

By  this  the  storm  grew  loud  apace, 
The  water-wraith  was  shrieking : 

And  in  the  scowl  of  heaven  each  face 
Grew  dark  as  they  were  speaking. 

But  still  as  wilder  blew  the  wind, 
And  as  the  night  grew  drearer, 

Ado wn  the  glen  rode  armed  men, 
Their  trampling  sounded  nearer. 

"Oh,  haste  thee,  haste!"  the  lady 
cries, 

"  Though  tempests  round  us  gather ; 
I'll  meet  the  raging  of  the  skies, 

But  not  an  angry  father." 


504 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


The  boat  has  left  a  stormy  land, 
A  stormy  sea  before  her, — 

When,    oh !    too    strong    for  human 
hand, 
The  temjjest  gathered  o'er  her. 

And  still  they  rowed  amidst  the  roar 

Of  waters  fast  prevailing  : 
Lord  Ullin  reached  that  fatal  shore ; 

His  wrath  was  changed  to  wailing. 

For,  sore  dismayed,  through  storm  and 
shade 

His  child  he  did  discover  : 
One  lovely  hand  she  stretched  for  aid, 

And  one  was  round  her  lover. 

"  Come  back  !   come  back !"  he  cried 
in  grief, 

"  Across  this  stormy  water  : 
And  I'll  forgive  your  Highland  chief, 

My  daughter  !  oh,  my  daughter !" 

'Twas  vain  :  the  loud  waves  lashed  the 
shore, 

Return  or  aid  preventing  ; 
The  waters  wild  went  o'er  iris  child, 

And  he  was  left  lamenting, 

Thomas  Campbell. 

THE  GLOVE  AND  THE  LIONS. 

King  Francis  was  a  hearty  king,  and 

loved  a  royal  sport, 
And  one  day,  as  his  lions  fought,  sat 

looking  on  the  court. 
The  nobles  filled  the  benches,  with  the 

ladies  in  their  pride, 
And  'mongst  them  sat  the  Count  de 

Lorge,   with    one    for   whom    he 

sighed ; 
And  truly  'twas  a  gallant  thing  to  see 

that  crowning  show, 
Valor  and  love,  and  a  king  above,  and 

the  royal  beasts  below. 


Ramped  and  roared  the  lions,  with  hor- 
rid laughing  jaws ; 
They  bit,  they  glared,  gave  blows  like 

beams,  a  wind  Avent  with  their 

paws ; 
With  wallowing  might  and  stifled  roar 

they  rolled  on  one  another, 
Till  all  the  pit  with  sand  and  mane 

Avas  in  a  thunderous  smother; 
The  bloody  foam  above  the  bars  came 

whisking  through  the  air ; 
Said  Francis  then,  "Faith,  gentlemen, 

we're  better  here  than  there." 

De  Lorge's  love  o'erheard  the  king,  a 

beauteous,  lively  dame, 
With  smiling  lips  and  sharp  bright 

eyes,  which  always   seemed   the 

same ; 
She  thought,  The  Count  my  lover  is 

brave  as  brave  can  be; 
He  surely  would  do  wondrous  things 

to  show  his  love  of  me ; 
King,  ladies,  lovers,  all  look  on ;  the 

occasion  is  divine ; 
I'll  drop  my  glove,  to  prove  his  love ; 

great  glory  will  be  mine. 

She  dropped  her  glove,  to  prove  his 

love,   then    looked    at  him   and 

smiled ! 
He  bowed,  and  in  a  moment  leaped 

among  the  lions  wild  : 
The  leap  was  quick,  return  was  quick, 

he  has  regained  his  place, 
Then  threw  the  glove,  but  not  with 

love,  right  in  the  lady's  face. 
"  By  heaven,"  said  Francis,  "rightly 

done  !"  and  he  rose  from  where 

he  sat; 
"  No  love,"  quoth  he,  "  but  vanity,  sets 

love  a  task  like  that." 

Leigh  Hunt. 


FAMOUS   POEMS   FOR    OLDER    CHILDREN. 


505 


BURIAL  OF  SIR  JOHN  MOORE. 
Not  a  drum  was  heard,  not  a  funeral 
note, 
As  his  corse  to  the  rampart  we  hur- 
ried ; 
Not  a  soldier  discharged  his  farewell 
shot 
O'er  the  grave  where  our  hero  we 
buried. 

We  buried   him  darkly,  at  dead  of 
night, 
The  sods  with  our  bayonets  turn- 
insp 
By  the  struggling  moonbeam's  misty 
light, 
And  the  lantern  dimly  burning. 

No  useless  coffin  enclosed  his  breast, 
Not  in  sheet  or  in  shroud  we  wound 
him ; 
But  he  lay  like  a  warrior  taking  his 
rest, 
With  his  martial  cloak  around  him. 


Few  and  short  were  the  prayers  we 
said, 
And  we  spoke  not  a  word  of  sor- 
row ; 
But  we  steadfastly  gazed  on  the  face 
that  was  dead, 
And  we  bitterly  thought  of  the  mor- 
row. 


Lightly  they'll  talk  of  the  spirit  that's 
gone, 
And   o'er   his   cold   ashes   upbraid 
him ; 
But  little  he'll  reck,  if  they  let  him 
sleep  on 
In  the  grave  where  a  Briton  has 
laid  him. 

But  half  of  our  heavy  task  was  done 
"When  the  clock  struck  the  hour  for 
retiring ; 
And  we  heard  the  distant  and  random 
gun 
That  the  foe  was  sullenly  firing. 

Slowly  and  sadly  we  laid  him  down, 
From  the  field  of  his  fame  fresh  and 
gory ; 
We  carved  not  a  line,  and  we  raised 
not  a  stone — 
But  we  left  him  alone  with  his  glory. 

Charles  Wolfe. 


HOW  SLEEP  THE  BRAVE. 

How  sleep  the  Brave  who  sink  to  rest 
By  all  their  country's  wishes  blest ! 
When  Spring,  with  dewy  fingers  cold, 
Returns  to  deck  their  hallowed  mould. 
She  there  shall  dress  a  sweeter  sod 
Than  Fancy's  feet  have  ever  trod.  • 


By  fairy  hands  their  knell  is  rung, 
We  thought  as  we  hollowed  his  nar-    B    forms  imseen  their  dirge  is  sun„. 

low  Dect,  :  There  Honor  comes,  a  pilgrim  gray, 

And  smoothed  down  his  lonely  pil-  |  To   bless   the   turf  that  wrapg   their 

clay, 


low, 


That  the  foe  and  the  stranger  would 
tread  o'er  his  head, 
And  we  far  away  on  the  billow ! 


And  Freedom  shall  a  while  repair 
To  dwell  a  weeping  hermit  there  ! 

William  Collins. 


506 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


THE    LANDING    OF    THE    PILGRIM 
FATHERS  IN  NEW  ENGLAND. 

"Look  now  abroad  ; — another  race  has  filled 

Those  populous  borders  ;  wide  the  wood  recedes, 
And  towns  shoot  up,  and  fertile  realms  are  tilled  : 
The  land  is  full  of  harvests  and  green  meads." 

Bryant. 

The  breaking  waves  dashed  high 
On  a  stern  and  rock-bound  coast, 

And  the  woods  against  a  stormy  sky 
Their  giant  branches  tossed ; 

And  the  heavy  night  hung  dark, 

The  hills  and  waters  o'er, 
When  a  band  of  exiles  moored  their 
bark 

On  the  wild  New  England  shore. 

Not  as  the  conqueror  comes, 
They,  the  true-hearted,  came  ; 

Not  with  the  roll  of  the  stirring  drums, 
And  the  trumpet  that  sings  of  fame ; 

Not  as  the  flying  come, 

In  silence  and  in  fear, — 
They  shook  the  depths  of  the  desert 
gloom 

With  their  hymns  of  lofty  cheer. 

Amidst  the  storm  they  sang, 

And  the  stars  heard,  and  the  sea, 

And  the  sounding  aisles  of  the  dim 
woods  rang 
To  the  anthem  of  the  free. 

The  ocean  eagle  soared 

From  his  nest  by  the  white  wave's 
foam, 
And  the  rocking  pines  of  the  forest 
roared — 
This  was  their  welcome  home. 

There  were  men  with  hoary  hair 
Amidst  that  pilgrim  band  : 

Why  had  they  come  to  wither  there, 
Away  from  their  childhood's  land  ? 


There  was  woman's  fearless  eye, 
Lit  by  her  deep  love's  truth ; 

There  was  manhood's  brow  serenely 
high, 
And  the  fiery  heart  of  youth. 

What  sought  they  thus  afar  ? 

Bright  jewels  of  the  mine  ? 
The  wealth  of  seas,  the  spoils  of  war  ? 

They  sought  a  faith's  pure  shrine  ! 

Ay,  call  it  holy  ground, 

The  soil  where  first  they  trod ; 

They  have  left  unstained  what  there 
they  found — 
Freedom  to  worship  God. 

Felicia  Dorothea  Hemans. 

HOHENLINDEN. 

On  Linden,  when  the  sun  was  low, 
All  bloodless  lay  the  untrodden  snow, 
And  dark  as  winter  was  the  flow 
Of  Iser,  rolling  rapidly. 

But  Linden  saw  another  sight 
When  the  drum  beat,  at  dead  of  night, 
Commanding  fires  of  death  to  light 
The  darkness  of  her  scenery. 

By  torch  and  trumpet  fast  arrayed, 
Each  horseman  drew  his  battle-blade, 
And  furious  every  charger  neighed 
To  join  the  dreadful  revelry. 

Then  shook   the   hills  with  thunder 

riven ; 
Then  rushed  the  steed  to  battle  driven  ; 
And,  louder  than  the  bolts  of  heaven, 
Far  flashed  the  red  artillery. 

But  redder  yet  that  light  shall  glow 
On  Linden's  hills  of  stained  snow, 
And  bloodier  yet  the  torrent  flow 
Of  Iser,  rolling  rapidly. 


FAMOUS   POEMS    FOR    OLDER    CHILDREN. 


507 


'Tis  morn ;  but  scarce  yon  level  sun 
Can  pierce  the  war-clouds,  rolling  dun, 
Where  furious  Frank  and  fiery  Hun 
Shout  in  their  sulphurous  canopy. 

The  combat  deepens !     On,  ye  brave, 
Who  rush  to  glory  or  the  grave ! 
Wave,  Munich,  all  thy  banners  wave ! 
And  charge  with  all  thy  chivalry ! 

Few,    few    shall    part    where    many 
meet, 

The    snow    shall    be    their   winding- 
sheet, 

And  every  turf  beneath  their  feet 
Shall  be  a  soldier's  sepulchre ! 

Thomas  Campbell. 


THE  AMERICAN  FLAG. 

When  Freedom  from  her  mountain- 
height 

Unfurled  her  standard  to  the  air, 
She  tore  the  azure  robe  of  night, 

And  set  the  stars  of  glory  there  ; 
She  mingled  with  its  gorgeous  dyes 
The  milky  baldric  of  the  skies, 
And  striped  its  pure  celestial  white 
With  streakings  of  the  morning  light; 
Then  from  his  mansion  in  the  sun 
She  called  her  eagle-bearer  clown, 
And  gave  into  his  mighty  hand 
The  symbol  of  her  chosen  land. 

Majestic  monarch  of  the  cloud  ! 

Who  rear'st  aloft  thy  regal  form, 
To  hear  the  tempest-trumpings  loud, 
And  see  the  lightning  lances  driven, 
When    strive   the   warriors    of  the 
storm, 
And     rolls     the     thunder -drum     of 

heaven — 
Child  of  the  sun !  to  thee  'tis  given 


To  guard  the  banner  of  the  free, 
To  hover  in  the  sulphur-smoke, 
To  ward  away  the  battle-stroke, 
And  bid  its  Mendings  shine  afar, 
Like  rainbows  on  the  cloud  of  war, 

The  harbingers  of  victory  ! 

Flag  of  the  brave!  thy  folds  shall  fly. 
The  sign  of  hope  and  triumph  high, 
When  speaks  the  signal  trumpet-tone, 
And  the  long  line  comes  gleaming  on  ; 
Ere  yet  the  life-blood,  warm  and  wet, 
Has  dimmed  the  glistening  bayonet, 
Each  soldier  eye  shall  brightly  turn 
To  where  thy  sky-born  glories  burn, 
And  as  his  springing  steps  advance 
Catch  war  and  vengeance   from   the 

glance. 
And  when  the  cannon-mouthings  loud 
Heave    in   wild   wreaths   the    battle- 
shroud, 
And  gory  sabres  rise  and  fall 
Like  shoots  of  flame  on  midnight's  pall, 
Then  shall  thy  meteor  glances  glow, 

And  cowering  foes  shall  sink  beneath 
Each  gallant  arm  that  strikes  below 

That  lovely  messenger  of  death. 

Flag  of  the  seas !  on  ocean  wave 
Thy  stars  shall  glitter  o'er  the  brave ; 
When  death,  careering  on  the  gale, 
Sweeps  darkly  round  the  bellied  sail, 
And  frighted  waves  rush  wildly  back 
Before  the  broadside's  reeling  rack, 
Each  dying  wanderer  of  the  sea 
Shall  look  at  once  to  heaven  and  thee, 
And  smile  to  see  thy  splendors  fly 
In  triumph  o'er  his  closing  eye. 

Flag  of  the  free  heart's  hope  and  home ! 

By  angel  hands  to  valor  given ; 
Thy  stars  have  lit  the  welkin  dome, 

And   all    thy   hues   were   born    in 
heaven. 


508 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


For  ever  float  that  standard  sheet ! 
Where   breathes   the   foe  but   falls 
before  us, 
With  freedom's  soil  beneath  our  feet, 
And    freedom's    banner   streaming 
o'er  us  ? 

Joseph  Rodman  Drake. 


THE  STAR-SPANGLED  BANNER. 

Oh,  say,  can  you  see  by  the  dawn's 

early  light 
What  so  proudly  we-  hailed  at  the 

twilight's  last  gleaming — 
Whose  broad  stripes  and  bright  stars 

through  the  perilous  fight, 
O'er  the  ramparts  we  watched,  were 

so  gallantly  streaming? 
And  the  rocket's  red  glare,  the  bombs 

bursting  in  air, 
Gave  proof  through  the  night  that  our 

flag  was  still  there; 
Oh,  say,  does  that  star-spangled  ban- 
ner yet  wave 
O'er  the  land  of  the  free,  and  the  home 

of  the  brave  ? 

On  that  shore,  dimly  seen  through  the 

mists  of  the  deep, 
Where   the   foe's   haughty  host  in 

dread  silence  reposes, 
What  is  that  which  the  breeze,  o'er  the 

towering  steep, 
As  it  fitfully  blows,  now  conceals, 

now  discloses? 
Now   it    catches    the    gleam   of    the 

morning's  first  beam, 
In  full  glory  reflected,  now  shines  on 

the  stream ; 
'Tis    tbe   star-spangled    banner;    oh, 

long  may  it  wave 
0?er  the  land  of  the  free,  and  the  home 

of  the  brave ! 


And  where  are  the  foes  who  so  vaunt- 

ingly  swore 
That    the   havoc   of    war   and    the 

battle's  confusion 
A  home  and  a  country  should  leave 

us  no  more? 
Their  blood  has  washed  out  their 

foul  footsteps'  pollution. 
No  refuge  could  save  the  hireling  and 

slave 
From  the  terror  of  flight,  or  the  gloom 

of  the  grave ; 
And  the  star-spangled  banner  in  tri- 
umph doth  wave 
O'er  the  land  of  the  free,  and  the  home 

of  the  brave. 

Oh,  thus   be   it  ever,  when   freemen 

shall  stand 
Between  their  loved  homes  and  the 

war's  desolation ! 
Blest  with  victory  and  peace,  may  the 

heaven-rescued  land 
Praise  the  Power  that  hath  made 

and  preserved  us  a  nation. 
Then  conquer  we  must,  when  our  cause 

it  is  just ; 
And  this  be  our  motto :  "  In  God  is 

our  trust ;" 
And  the  star-spangled  banner  in  tri- 
umph shall  wave 
O'er  the  land  of  the  free,  and  the  home 

of  the  brave. 

Francis  Scott  Kev. 

AMERICA. 

My  country,  'tis  of  thee, 
Sweet  land  of  liberty, 

Of  thee  I  sing ; 
Land  where  my  fathers  died, 
Land  of  the  pilgrim's  pride, 
From  every  mountain-side 

Let  freedom  ring. 


FAMOUS    POEMS   FOR    OLDER    CHILDREN. 


509 


My  native  country,  thee — 
Land  of  the  noble,  free — 

Thy  name  I  love ; 
I  love  thy  rocks  and  rills, 
Thy  woods  and  templed  hills; 
My  heart  with  rapture  thrills 

Like  that  above. 

Let  music  swell  the  breeze, 
And  ring  from  all  the  trees 

Sweet  freedom's  song : 
Let  mortal  tongues  awake ; 
Let  all  that  breathe  partake ; 
Let  rocks  their  silence  break, — 

The  sound  prolong. 

Our  fathers'  God,  to  Thee, 
Author  of  liberty, 

To  Thee  we  sing; 
Long  may  our  land  be  bright 
With  freedom's  holy  light ; 
Protect  us  by  thy  might, 

Great  God,  our  King. 

Samuel  F.  Smith. 


HELLVELLYN. 

I  climbed  the  dark  brow  of  the  mighty 

Hellvellyn. 
Lakes  and  mountains  beneath  me 

gleamed  misty  and  wide  ; 
All  was  still,  save  by  fits,  when  the 

eagle  was  yelling, 
And  starting  around  me  the  echoes 

replied. 
On  the  right,  Striden-edge  round  the 

Red-tarn  was  bending. 
And  Catchedicam  its  left  verge  was 

defending, 
One  huge  nameless  rock  in  the  front 

was  ascending, 
When  I  marked  the  sad  spot  where 

the  wanderer  had  died. 


Dark  green  was  that  spot  'mid  the 
brown  mountain-heather, 
Where  the  Pilgrim  of  Nature  lay 
stretched  in  decay, 

Like  the  corpse  of  an  outcast  aban- 
doned to  weather, 
Till  the  mountain-winds  wasted  the 
tenantless  clay. 

Nor  yet  quite  deserted,  though  lonely 
extended, 

For,  faithful  in  death,  his  mute  favo- 
rite attended, 

The  much-loved  remains  of  her  mas- 
ter defended, 
And   chased  the  hill-fox   and   the 
raven  away. 

How  long  didst  thou  think  that  his 

silence  was  slumber  ? 
When  the  wind  waved  his  garment, 

how  oft  didst  thou  start  ? 
How  many  long  days  and  long  weeks 

didst  thou  number, 
Ere  he  faded  before  thee,  the  friend 

of  thy  heart  ? 
And  oh,  was  it  meet,  that — no  requiem 

read  o'er  him, 
No  mother  to  weep,  and  no  friend  to 

deplore  him, 
And     thou,     little     guardian,     alone 

stretched  before  him, — 
Unhonored   the   Pilgrim   from   life 

should  depart? 

When   a   Prince  to  the  fate  of  the 
Peasant  has  yielded, 
The  tapestry  waves  dark  round  the 
dim-lighted  hall ; 
With  scutcheons  of  silver  the  coffin  is 
shielded, 
And  pages  stand  mute  by  the  can- 
opied pall : 


-510 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


Through  the  courts  at  deep  midnight 
the  torches  are  gleaming  ; 

In  the  proudly -arched  chapel  the  ban- 
ners are  beaming ; 

Far  adown  the  long  aisle  sacred  music 
is  streaming, 
Lamenting  a  Chief  of  the   People 
should  fall. 


But  meeter  for  thee,  gentle  lover  of 
Nature, 
To   lay   down   thy   head    like   the 
meek  mountain-lamb, 

When,  'wildered,  he  drops  from  some 
'cliff  huge  in  stature, 
And  draws  his  last  sob  by  the  side 
of  his  dam. 

And  more  stately  thy  couch  by  this 
desert  lake  lying, 

Thy  obsequies  sung  by  the  gray  plo- 
ver flying, 

With  one  faithful  friend  but  to  wit- 
ness thy  dying. 
In    the    arms   of    Hellvellyn    and 
Catchedicam. 

Sir  Walter  Scott. 


ZARA'S  EAR-RINGS. 

My  ear-rings  !  my  ear-rings !  they've 

dropped  into  the  well, 
And  what  to  say  to  Muga,  I  cannot, 

cannot  tell — 
'Twas  thus,  Granada's  fountain  by, 

spoke  Albuharez'  daughter  : — 
The  well  is  deep — far  down  they  lie, 

beneath  the  cold  blue  water  ; 
To  me  did  Muga  give  them  when  he 

spake  his  sad  farewell, 
And  what  to  say  when  he  comes  back, 

alas  !  I  cannot  tell. 


My   ear-rings  !    my    ear-rings  ! — they 

were  pearls  in  silver  set, 
That,  when  my  Moor  was  far  away. 

I  ne'er  should  him  forget ; 
That  I  ne'er  to  other  tongues  should 

list,  nor  smile  on  other's  tale, 
But  remember  he  my  lips  had  kissed, 

pure  as  those  ear-rings  pale. 
When  he  comes  back,  and  hears  that 

I  have  dropped  them  in  the  well. 
Oh,  what  will  Muga  think  of  me  ? — I 

cannot,  cannot  tell ! 

My  ear-rings  !  my  ear-rings  ! — he'll 
say  they  should  have  been, 

Not  of  pearl  and  of  silver,  but  of  gold 
and  glittering  sheen. 

Of  jasper  and  of  onyx,  and  of  dia- 
mond shining  clear, 

Changing  to  the  changing  light,  with 
radiance  insincere ; 

That  changeful  mind  unchanging 
gems  are  not  befitting  well, 

Thus  will  he  think — and  what  to  say, 
alas  !  I  cannot  tell. 

He'll  think  when  I  to  market  went  I 

loitered  by  the  way  ; 
He'll  think  a  willing  ear  I  lent  to  all 

the  lads  might  say  ; 
He'll  think  some  other  lover's  hand, 

among  my  tresses  noosed, 
From  the  ears  where  he  had  placed 

them  my  rings  of  pearl  unloosed  ; 
He'll  think  when  I  was  sporting  so 

beside  this  marble  well 
My  pearls  fell  in — and  what  to  say. 

alas  !  I  cannot  tell. 

He'll  say  I  am  a  woman,  and  we  are 

all  the  same ; 
He'll  say  I  loved  when  he  was  here  to 

whisper  of  his  flame — 


FAMOUS   POEMS    FOR    OLDER    CHILDREN. 


511 


But  when  lie  went  to  Tunis,  my  vir- 
gin troth  had  broken, 

And  thought  no  more  of  Muca,  and 
cared  not  for  his  token. 

My  ear-rings  !  my  ear-rings  !  0  luck- 
less, luckless  well ! — 

For  what  to  say  to  Muca,  alas !  I 
cannot  tell. 

I'll  tell  the  truth  to  Muca — and  I  hope 

he  will  believe — 
That  I  thought  of  him  at  morning 

and  thought  of  him  at  eve ; 
That  musing  on  my  lover,  when  down 

the  sun  was  gone, 
His  ear-rings  in  my  hand  I  held,  by 

the  fountain  all  alone  ; 
And  that  my  mind  was  o'er  the  sea 

when  from  my  hand  they  fell, 
And  that  deep  his   love  lies  in  my 

heart,  as  they  lie  in  the  well. 

(From  the  Spanish.) 
John  Gibson  Lockhart. 

LADY  CLARE. 

It  was  the  time  when  lilies  blow, 
And  clouds  are  highest  up  in  air, 

Lord  Ronald  brought  a  lily-white  doe 
To  give  his  cousin,  Lady  Clare. 

I  trow  they  did  not  part  in  scorn : 
Lovers  long  betrothed  were  they : 

They  two  will  wed  the  morrow  morn  : 
God's  blessing  on  the  day ! 

"  He  does  not  love  me  for  my  birth, 
Nor  for  my  lands  so  broad  and  fair ; 

He  loves  me  for  my  own  true  worth, 
And  that  is  well,"  said  Lady  Clare. 

In  there  came  old  Alice  the  nurse, 
Said,  "  Who  was  this  that  went  from 
thee  ?" 

"  It  was  my  cousin,"  said  Lady  Clare ; 
"  To-morrow  he  weds  with  me." 


"  Oh,  God  be  thanked  !"  said  Alice  the 
nurse, 
"  That  all  comes  round  so  just  and 
fair: 
Lord  Ronald  is  heir  of  all  your  lands, 
And  you  are  not  the  Lady  Clare." 

"  Are  ye  out  of  your  mind,  my  nurse, 
my  nurse," 
Said  Lady  Clare,  "  that  ye  speak  so 
wild?" 
"  As  God's  above,"  said  Alice  the  nurse, 
"  I  speak   the  truth :   you  are  my 
child: 

"  The  old  earl's  daughter  died  at  my 
breast ; 

I  speak  the  truth,  as  I  live  by  bread ! 
I  buried  her  like  my  own  sweet  child. 

And  put  my  child  in  her  stead." 

"  Falsely,  falsely  have  ye  done, 

0   mother,"  she   said,  "  if  this  be 
true, 

To  keep  the  best  man  under  the  sun 
So  many  years  from  his  due." 

"  Nay  now,  my  child,"  said  Alice  the 
nurse, 
"  But  keep  the  secret  for  your  life, 
And  all  you  have  will  be  Lord  Ron- 
ald's 
When  you  are  man  and  wife." 

"  If  I'm  a  beggar  born,"  she  said, 
"  I  will  speak  out,  for  I  dare  not  lie. 

Pull  off,  pull  off  the  brooch  of  gold, 
And  fling   the    diamond    necklace 
by." 

"  Nay  now,  my  child,"  said  Alice  the 
nurse, 

"  But  keep  the  secret  all  ye  can." 
She  said,  "  Not  so :  but  I  will  know 

If  there  be  any  faith  in  man." 


512 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF  POETRY. 


"Nay  now,  what  faith?"  said  Alice 
the  nurse, 
"  The   man   will    cleave   unto    his 
right." 
"  And  he  shall  have  it,"  the  lady  re- 
plied, 
"  Though  I  should  die  to-night." 

"  Yet  give  one  kiss  to  your  mother, 
dear ! 
Alas,  my  child,  I  sinned  for  thee." 
"O  mother,  mother,  mother,"  she  said, 

"So  strange  it  seems  to  me  ! 

■ 

"  Yet  here's  a  kiss  for  my  mother  dear, 
My  mother  dear,  if  this  be  so, 

And  lay  your  hand  upon  my  head, 
And  bless  me,  mother,  ere  I  go." 

She  clad  herself  in  a  russet  gown, 
She  was  no  longer  Lady  Clare : 

She  went  b}r  dale,  and  she  went  by 
down, 
With  a  single  rose  in  her  hair. 

The  lily-white!  doe  Lord  Ronald  had 
brought 
Leapt  up  from  where  she  lay, 
Dropped  her   head   in  the   maiden's 
hand, 
And  followed  her  all  the  way. 

Down  stepped  Lord  Ronald  from  his 
tower : 
"  0  Lady  Clare,  you   shame  your 
worth ! 
Wh}r  come  you  dressed  like  a  village 
maid, 
That  are  the  flower  of  the  earth  ?" 

•'  If  I  come  dressed  like  a  village  maid, 
I  am  but  as  my  fortunes  are : 

I  am  a  beggar  born,"  she  said, 
"  And  not  the  Lady  Clare." 


"  Play  me  no  tricks,"  said  Lord  Ron- 
ald, 
"For  I  am  yours  in  word  and  in 
deed. 
Play  me  no  tricks,"  said  Lord  Ronald, 
"  Your  riddle  is  hard  to  read." 

Oh,  and  proudly  stood  she  up  ! 

Her  heart  within  her  did  not  fail : 
She  looked  into  Lord  Ronald's  eyes, 

And  told  him  all  her  nurse's  tale. 

He  laughed  a  laugh  of  merry  scorn : 
He  turned  and  kissed  her  where  she 
stood : 
"  If  you  are  not  the  heiress  born, 
And    I,"   said    he,   "  the    next    in 
blood — 

"  If  you  are  not  the  heiress  born, 
"And  I,"  said  he,  "the  lawful  heir, 

We  two  will  wed  to-morrow  morn, 
And  you  shall  still  be  Lady  Clare." 

Alfred  Tennyson. 

THE  BELLS, 
i. 
Hear  the  sledges  with  the  bells, — 
Silver  bells, — 
What    a   world    of    merriment    their 
melody  foretells  ! 
How  they  tinkle,  tinkle,  tinkle, 

In  the  icy  air  of  night ! 
While  the  stars  that  oversprinkle 
All  the  heavens  seem  to  twinkle 

With  a  crystalline  delight, — 
Keeping  time,  time,  time, 
In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme, 
To  the  tintinnabulation  that  so  music- 
ally wells 
From  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 
Bells,  bells,  bells, — 
From  the  jingling  and  the  tinkling  of 
the  bells. 


FAMOUS   POEMS   FOR    OLDER    CHILDREN. 


513 


ii. 

Hear  the  mellow  wedding-bells, — 
Golden  bells ! 
What  a  world  of  happiness  their  har- 
mony foretells ! 
Through  the  balmy  air  of  night 
How  they  ring  out  their  delight ! 
From  the  molten-golden  notes, 

And  all  in  tune, 
What  a  liquid  ditty  floats 
To  the  turtle-dove  that  listens  while 
.    she  gloats 

On  the  moon ! 
Oh,  from  out  the  sounding  cells 
What  a  gush  of  euphony  voluminously 
wells ! 

How  it  swells ! 
How  it  dwells 
On  the  Future  !  how  it  tells 
Of  the  rapture  that  impels 
To  the  swinging  and  the  ringing 

Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells, 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 
Bells,  bells,  bells, — 
To  the  rhyming  and  the  chiming  of 
the  bells. 

in. 

Hear  the  loud  alarum-bells,— 
.  Brazen  bells ! 
What  a  tale  of  terror,  now,  their  turbu- 
lency  tells ! 
In  the  startled  ear  of  night 
How  they  scream  out  their  affright! 
Too  much  horrified  to  speak, 
They  can  only  shriek,  shriek, 
Out  of  tune, 
In   the   clamorous   appealing    to   the 

mercy  of  the  fire, 
In  a  mad  expostulation  with  the  deaf 
and  frantic  fire 
Leaping  higher,  higher,  higher, 
With  a  desperate  desire, 


And  a  resolute  endeavor, 
Now — now  to  sit  or  never, 
By  the  side  of  the  pale-faced  moon. 
Oh  the  bells,  bells,  bells, 
What  a  tale  their  terror  tells 
Of  despair ! 
How  they  clang  and  clash  and 

roar ! 
What  a  horror  they  outpour 
On  the  bosom  of  the  palpitating  air ! 
Yet  the  ear  it  fully  knows, 
By  the  twanging, 
And  the  clanging, 
How  the  danger  ebbs  and  flows ; 
Yet  the  ear  distinctly  tells, 
In  the  jangling, 
And  the  wrangling, 
How  the  danger  sinks  and  swells, 
By  the  sinking  or  the  swelling  in  the 
anger  of  the  bells, — 
Of  the  bells  — 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 
Bells,  bells,  bells, — 
In  the  clamor  and  the  clangor  of  the 
bells ! 

IV. 

Hear  the  tolling  of  the  bells, — 
Iron  bells ! 
What  a  world  of  solemn  thought  their 
monody  compels ! 
In  the  silence  of  the  night, 
How  we  shiver  with  affright 
At  the  melancholy  menace  of  their 
tone ! 
For  every  sound  that  floats 
From  the  rust  within  their  throats 

Is  a  groan. 
And  the  people, — ah,  the  people, — 
They  that  dwell  up  in  the  steeple, 

All  alone, 
And  wrho  tolling,  tolling,  tolling, 
In  that  muffled  monotone. 


>14 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


Feel  a  glory  in  so  rolling 

On  the  human  heart  a  stone — 
They  are  neither  man  nor  woman, — 
They  are  neither  brute  nor  human, — 

They  are  ghouls : 
And  their  king  it  is  who  tolls ; 
And  he  rolls,  rolls,  rolls, 
Rolls, 

A  paean  from  the  bells  ! 
And  his  merry  bosom  swells 

With  the  psean  of  the  bells ! 
And  he  dances  and  he  yells ; 
Keeping  time,  time,  time, 
In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme, 

To  the  paean  of  the  bells, — 
Of  the  bells : 
Keeping  time,  time,  time, 
In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme, 

To  the  throbbing  of  the  bells, — 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells, — 

To  the  sobbing  of  the  bells ; 
Keeping  time,  time,  time, 

As  he  knells,  knells,  knells, 
In  a  happy  Runic  rhyme, 

To  the  rolling  of  the  bells, — 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells, — 

To  the  tolling  of  the  bells, 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells- 
Bells,  bells,  bells  — 
To  the  moaning  and  the  groaning  of 

the  bells. 

Edgar  Allan  Poe. 

THE  CHAMELEON. 
Oft  has  it  been  my  lot  to  mark 
A  proud,  conceited,  talking  spark, 
With  eyes  that  hardly  served  at  most 
To  guard  their  master  'gainst  a  post, 
Yet  round  the  world  the  blade  has 

been 
To  see  whatever  could  be  seen. 
Returning  from  his  finished  tour 
Grown  ten  times  perter  than  before  ; 


Whatever  word  you  chance  to  drop, 
The  travelled  fool  your  mouth  will 

stop ; 
"  Sir,  if  my  judgment  you'll  allow, 
I've  seen — and  sure  I  ought  to  know," 
So  begs  you'd  pay  a  due  submission, 
And  acquiesce  in  his  decision. 

Two  travellers  of  such  a  cast, 
As  o'er  Arabia's  wilds  they  passed, 
And  on  their  way,  in  friendly  chat, 
Now  talked  of  this,  and  then  of  that, 
Discoursed    a   while,    'mongst    other 

matter, 
Of  the  chameleon's  form  and  nature. 
"  A  stranger  animal,"  cries  one, 
"  Sure  never  lived  beneath  the  sun. 
A  lizard's  body,  lean  and  long, 
A  fish's  head,  a  serpent's  tongue, 
Its  foot  with  triple  claw  disjoined, 
And  what  a  length  of  tail  behind  ! 
How  slow  its  pace,  and  then  its  hue, — 
Who  ever  saw  so  fine  a  blue  ?" 

"  Hold,  there !"   the  other  quick   re- 
plies ; 
"  'Tis  green, — I  saw  it  with  these  eyes, 
As  late  with  open  mouth  it  lay, 
And  warmed  it  in  the  sunny  ray  ; 
Stretched  at  its  ease  the  beast  I  viewed, 
And  saw  it  eat  the  air  for  food." 
"  I've  seen  it,  sir,  as  well  as  you, 
And  must  again  affirm  it  blue ; 
At  leisure  I  the  beast  surveyed, 
Extended  in  the  cooling  shade." 
"  'Tis  green,  'tis  green,  sir,   I  assure 

ye." 

"  Green  !"  cries  the  other  in  a  fury, — 
"  Why,  sir,  d'ye  think  I've  lost  my 


eyes 


?" 


"  'Twere  no  great  loss,"  the  friend  re- 
plies, 
"  For  if  they  always  serve  you  thus, 
You'll  find  them  of  but  little  use." 


FAMOUS   POEMS    FOR    OLDER    CHILDREN. 


511 


So  high  at  last  the  contest  rose, 
From    words    they    almost   came   to 

blows, 
When  luckily  came  by  a  third, — 
To  him  the  question  they  referred, 
And  begged  he"d  tell  'em,  if  he  knew, 
Whether  the  thing  was  green  or  blue. 
"  Sirs,"  cries  the  umpire,  "  cease  your 

pother ! 
The  creature's  neither  one  nor  t'other. 
I  caught  the  animal  last  night, 
And  viewed  it  o'er  by  candlelight ; 
I  marked  it  well — 'twas  black  as  jet ; 
You  stare, — but,  sirs,  I've  got  it  yet, 
And  can  produce  it." — "  Pray,  sir,  do  : 
111  lay  my  life  the  thing  is  blue." 
"  And  111  be  sworn,  that  when  you've 

seen 
The    reptile,    you'll    pronounce   him 

green." 

"  Well  then,  at  once  to  ease  the  doubt," 
Replies  the  man,  "  I'll  turn  him  out, 
And  when  before  your  eyes  I've  set 

him, 
If  you  don't  find  him  black,  111  eat 

him." 
He  said,  then  full  before  their  sight 
Produced   the   beast,  and   lo  ! — 'twas 

white. 

Both  stared  ;  the  man  looked  won- 
drous wise — - 

"  My  children,"  the  chameleon  cries 

(Then  first  the  creature  found  a 
tongue"1, 

"  You  all  are  right,  and  all  are  wrong ; 

When  next  you  talk  of  what  you 
view, 

Think  others  see  as  well  as  you  ; 

Nor  wonder,  if  you  find  that  none 

Prefers  your  eyesight  to  his  own." 

James  Meekick. 


THE  THREE  WARNINGS. 
The  tree  of  deepest  root  is  found 
Least  willing  still  to  quit  the  ground  : 
'Twas  therefore  said  by  ancient  sages, 
That  love  of  life  increased  with  years 
So  much,  that  in  our  later  stages, 
When  pains  grow  sharp,  and  sickness 
rages, 
The  greatest  love  of  life  appears. 
This  great  affection  to  believe, 
Which  all  confess,  but  few  perceive, 
If  old  assertions  can't  prevail, — 
Be  pleased  to  hear  a  modern  tale. 
When  sports  went  round,  and  all 
Avere  gay. 
On  neighbor  Dodson's  wedding-day, 
Death  called  aside  the  jocund  groom 
With  him  into  another  room, 
And  looking  grave — "  You  must,"  says 

he, 
"  Quit    your    SAveet  bride,  and  come 

with  me." 
"  With  you !  and  quit  my  Susan's  side ! 
With    you !"    the    hapless     husband 

cried  ; 
"  Young  as  I  am,  'tis  monstrous  hard  ! 
Besides,  in  truth,  I'm  not  prepared  : 
My  thoughts  on  other  matters  go  : 
This  is  my  wedding-day,  you  know." 
What  more  he  urged   I    have  not 
heard  ; 
His   reasons   could   not   well   be 
stronger ; 
So     Death     the     poor     delinquent 
spared, 
And  left  to  live  a  little  longer. 
Yet  calling  up  a  serious  look— 
His    hour-glass    trembled    while    he 

spoke — 
"  Neighbor,"  he  said,  "  farewell !     Nc 

more 
Shall   Death   disturb   your    mirthful 
hour  : 


516 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


And  farther,  to  avoid  all  blame 

Of  cruelty  upon  my  name, 

To  give  you  time  for  preparation, 

And  fit  you  for  your  future  station, 

Three    several    warnings    you    shall 

have 
Before  you're  summoned  to  the  grave. 
Willing  for  once  I'll  quit  my  prey, 

And  grant  a  kind  reprieve, 
In  hopes  you'll  have  no  more  to  say, 
But,  when  I  call  again  this  way, 

Well  pleased  the  world  will  leave." 
To  these  conditions  both  consented, 
And  parted  perfectly  contented. 

What  next   the   hero   of    our  tale 
befell, 
How  long  he  lived,   how  wise,  how 

well, 
How  roundly  he  pursued  his  course, 
And  smoked  his  pipe,  and  stroked  his 
horse, 

The  willing  Muse  shall  tell. 
He  chaffered  then,  he  bought,  he  sold, 
Nor  once  perceived  his  growing  old, 

Nor  thought  of  Death  as  near  ; 
His    friends    not   false,   his   wife   no 

shrew, 
Many  his  gains,  his  children  few, 

He  passed  his  hours  in  peace. 
But  while  he  viewed  his  wealth  in- 
crease, 
While  thus  along  Life's  dusty  road 
The  beaten  track  content  he  trod, 
Old   Time,   whose    haste    no   mortal 

spares, 
Uncalled,  unheeded,  unawares, 

Brought  on  his  eightieth  year. 
And  now,  one  night,  in  musing  mood 

As  all  alone  he  sate, 

The  unwelcome  messenger  of  Fate 
Once  more  before  him  stood. 
Half  killed  with  anger  and  surprise, 
"  So  soon  returned!"  old  Dodson  cries. 


"So  soon,  d'ye  call  it?"  Death  re- 
plies : 
"  Surely,  my  friend,  you're  but  in  jest! 

Since  I  was  here  before 
'Tis  six-and-thirty  years  at  least, 

And  you  are  now  fourscore." 
"  So  much  the  worse,"  the  clown  re- 
joined ; 
"  To  spare  the  aged  would  be  kind : 
However,  see  your  search  be  legal ; 
And  your  authority — is't  regal  ? 
Else  you  are  come  on  a  fool'^  errand. 
With  but  a  secretary's  warrant. 
Besides,    you    promised    me     Three 

Warnings, 
Which  I  have  looked  for  nights  and 

mornings ; 
But  for  that  loss  of  time  and  ease 
I  can  recover  damages." 

"  I  know,"  cries  Death,  "  that  at  the 
best 
I  seldom  am  a  welcome  guest ; 
But  don't  be  captious,  friend,  at  least : 
I  little  thought  you'd  still  be  able 
To  stump  about  your  farm  and  stable ; 
Your  years  have  run  to  a  great  length  ; 
I   wish    you    joy,    though,    of   your 
strength  !" 
"  Hold,"  says  the  farmer,   "  not  so 
fast! 
I   have   been   lame   these   four  years 
past." 
"  And  no  great  wonder,"  Death  re- 
plies : 
"  However,  you  still  keep  your  eyes ; 
And  sure,  to  see  one's  loves  and  friends, 
For     legs     and    arms    would    make 
amends." 
"Perhaps,"    says    Dodson,    "so    it 
•     might, 
But  latterly  I've  lost  my  sight." 

"  This  is  a  shocking  tale,  'tis  true, 
But  still  there's  comfort  left  for  you : 


FAMOUS    POEMS   FOR    OLDER    CHILDREN. 


•",17 


Each  strives  your  sadness  to  amuse ;    [With    merry   peals    shall    swell    the 


1  warrant  you  hear  all  the  news." 
•'There's   none.1'  cries  he;  "and  if 
there  were, 
I'm  grown  so  deaf  I  could  not  hear." 
'"  Nay,   then."    the    spectre    stern   re- 
joined, 
'"These    are    unwarrantable   yearn- 
ings : 


breeze 

And  point  with  taperspire  to  heaven. 
Samuel  Rogers. 


ABOU  BEN  ADHEIYI. 

Abou  Bex  Adhem  (may  Ids  tribe  in- 
crease ! ) 


If  vou  are  lame,  and  deaf,  and  blind,  i   ,       . 

.  '  ,,  ~.   .        ■  Awoke  one  night  from  a  deep  dream 

1  on  ve   had   your   three    sufficient  :  . 

of  peace. 


warnings ; 
So,  come  along,  no  more  we'll  part;" 


And  saw,  within  the  moonlight  in  his 
room, 


He  said,  and  touched  him  with  his    ,,  ,  .  -       '      .  n  ,    ,.,  ,'., 

,  Making   it   rich,   and   like   a   hlv   m 

dart.  = 

bloom, 

An  angel,  writing  in  a  book  of  gold. 

Exceeding  peace  had  made  Ben  Ad- 
hem bold, 

And  to  the  presence  in  the  room  he 
said, 

''What  writest  thou?"  The  vision 
raised  its  head, 

And,  with  a  look  made  of  all-sweet 
accord, 

Answered,  ''  The  names  of  those  who 
love  the  Lord." 

"And  is  mine  one?"  said  Abou. 
"  Nay,  not  so," 

Replied  the  angel.  Abou  spoke  more 
low, 

But  cheerily  still ;  and  said,  "  I  pray 
thee,  then, 

Write  me  as  one  that  loves  his  fellow- 
men." 

The  angel  wrote  and  vanished.  The 
next  night 

It  came  again  with  a  great  wakening 
light, 

And  showed  the  names  whom  love  of 
God  had  blessed, 


And  now  old  Dodson,  turning  pale, 
Yields  to  his  fate — so  ends  my  tale. 

Hester  Thrale  Piozzi. 


A  WISH. 

Mine  be  a  cot  beside  the  hill ; 

A  beehive's  hum  shall  soothe  my 
ear  ; 
A  willowy  brook  that  turns  a  mill, 

With  many  a  fall,  shall  linger  near. 

The  swallow,  oft,  beneath  my  thatch, 
Shall   twitter   from   her    clay-built 
nest ; 
Oft  shall  the  pilgrim  lift  the  latch, 
And   share    my   meal,   a   welcome 
guest. 

Around  my  ivied  porch  shall  spring 
Each    fragrant   flower   that    drinks 
the  dew ; 

And  Lucy,  at  her  wheel,  shall  sing 
In  russet  gown  and  apron  blue. 


The  village  church,  anions;  the  trees 
7here  : 
given 


'    !  And  lo !  Ben  Adhem 's  name  led  all 
Where  first  our  marriage  vows  were 


the  rest ! 


Leigh  Hint. 


518 


THE    CHILDREN'S   BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


ODE  ON  SOLITUDE. 

Happy  the  man,  whose  wish  and  care 

A  few  paternal  acres  bound, 
Content  to  breathe  his  native  air 
In  his  own  ground. 

Whose  herds  with  milk,  whose  fields 
with  bread, 
Whose  flocks  supply  him  with  attire ; 
Whose  trees   in   summer   yield   him 
shade, 

In  winter,  fire. 

Blest,  who  can  unconcernedly  find 
Hours,  days,  and  years,  slide  soft 
away 
In  health  of  body,  peace  of  mind, 
Quiet  by  day. 

Sound  sleep  by  night ;  study  and  ease 

Together  mixed;  sweet  recreation, 
And    innocence,    which    most    does 
please, 

With  meditation. 

Thus  let  me  live,  unseen,  unknown  ; 

Thus  unlamented  let  me  die ; 
Steal  from  the  world,  and  not  a  stone 
Tell  where  I  lie. 

Alexander  Pope. 

HONEST  POVERTY. 

Is  there  for  honest  poverty 

That  hangs  his  head,  and  a'  that  ? 
The  coward  slave,  we  pass  him  by ; 

We  dare  be  poor  for  a'  that ! 
For  a'  that  and  a'  that, 

Our  toils'  obscure,  and  a'  that ; 
The  rank  is  but  the  guinea's  stamp — 

The  man's  the  gowd  for  a'  that ! 


What    though    on    namely    fare    we 
dine, 
Wear  hoddin  gray,  and  a'  that ; 
Gie  fools  their  silks,  and  knaves  their 
wine — 
A  man's  a  man  for  a'  that ! 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that, 

Their  tinsel  show,  and  a'  that ; 
!  The    honest    man,    though    e'er    sae 
poor, 
Is  king  o'  men  for  a'  that ! 

You  see  yon  birkie  ca'd  a  lord, 

Wha  struts,  and  stares,  and  a'  that — 
Though  hundreds  worship  at  his  word, 

He's  but  a  coof  for  a'  that ; 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that, 

His  riband,  star,  and  a'  that; 
The  man  of  independent  mind, 

He  looks  and  laughs  at  a'  that. 

A  king  can  make  a  belted  knight, 

A  marquis,  duke,  and  a'  that : 
But  an  honest  man's  aboon  his  might — 

Guid  faith,  he  manna  fa'  that ! 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that, 

Their  dignities,  and  a'  that ; 
The  pith  o'  sense,  and  pride  o'  worth, 

Are  higher  ranks  than  a'  that. 

Then  let  us  pray  that  come  it  may, 

As  come  it  will  for  a'  that, 
That    sense    and   worth,  o'er    a1   the 
earth, 

May  bear  the  gree,  and  a'  that. 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that, 

It's  coming  yet,  for  a'  that — 
That  man  to  man,  the  warld  o'er, 

Shall  brothers  be  for  a'  that. 

Kobeet  Burns. 


INDEX   OF  FIRST  LINES. 


Page 
Aboc  Bex  Adhem  (may  his  tribe  increase!)...  517 

A  charming  present  comes  from  town 127 

A  chieftain  to  the  Highlands  bound 503 

A  child  went  wandering  through  a  wood 117 

A  country  lad  with  honest  air 335 

A  crow,  as  he  flew  by  a  farm  window-sill 251' 

A  dark-green  prickly  yew  one  night 293 

A  fair  little  girl  sat  under  a  tree 350 

A  fearful  storm  in  the  British  Channel 161 

A  fierce  grizzly  bear 219 

A  foolish  little  maiden  bought  a  foolish  little   . 

bonnet 122 

A  frog  he  would  a-wooing  go 264 

A  generous  tar,  who  long  had  been 244 

A  grasshopper  having  sung 274 

•'  Ah  !    don't  you   remember  'tis    almost   De- 
cember    126 

"Ah!   the  morning  is  gray 302 

A  hungry  spider  made  a  web 26S 

A  huntsman  bearing  his  gun  afield 252 

A  king  and  a  queen  had  a  beautiful  daugh- 
ter    424 

A  kiss  when  I  wake  in  the  morning 52 

Alas  !  little  Kitty — do  give  her  your  pity  !....   106 

A  little  brook  went  surging 337 

A  little  brook,  within  a  meadow 335 

A  little  child  she  read  a  book 3S2 

A  little  child  six  summers  old 3S1 

A  little  girl,  with  a  happy  look 53 

A  little  gold  robin  with  very  red  breast 240 

All  the  children  in  the  parlor 402 

All  things  bright  and  beautiful 279 

A   milkmaid,  who  poised  a  full  pail  on  her 

head Ill 

A  million  little  diamonds 329 

And  has  my  darling  told  a  lie  ? 114 

"And  wherefore  do  the  poor  complain  ?" 137 

"  And  where  have  you  been,  my  Mary 450 

A  nightingale  made  a  mistake 255 

A  nightingale  that  all  day  long 257 


Page 

An  old  farm-house,  with  meadows  wile 105 

Another  little  wave 15 

A  parrot  that  lived  at  a  gentleman's  house....  251 
A    poor   boy    went    by   with    his   raiment    all 

torn  135 

A  postman  stood  with  puzzled  brow 3S0  , 

"Arise!  my  maiden  Mabel" 430 

Around  the  fire,  one  wintry  night 133 

Around  the  throne  of  God  in  heaven 373 

Art  thou  the  bird  whom  man  loves  best 242 

A  Sabbath  well  spent 379 

As  a  little  raindrop  clung 307 

As  Dick  and  Ben,  one  summer  day 146 

A  simple  child 75 

As  I  walked  over  the  hill  one  day 188 

A  song  for  the  baby,  sweet  little  Bopeep 33 

A  sparrow  caught  upon  a  tree 257 

A  traveller  on  a  dusty  road 94 

A  wasp  met  a  bee  that  was  buzzing  by 272 

A  wonderful  house  is  Little-doll  Hall 423 

A   youngster    at    school,    more    sedate   than 

the  rest 119 

Baby  Bye 265 

Baby  in  the  window  stood 32S 

Baby  sleeps,  so  we  must  tread 34 

"Be  my  fairy,  mother 334 

Between  the  dark  and  the  daylight 55 

Beyond  the  ocean  many  a  mile 396 

Beyond  the  palings  of  the  park 206 

Birds  are  in  the  woodland,  buds  are  on  the  tree  299 

Bless  me!  here's  another  baby 25 

Boy,  at  all  times  tell  the  truth S3 

Bright  glows  the  east  with  blushing  red 171 

Brown  eyes 64 

Busy  little  fingers 58 

Buttercups  and  Daisies 2S7 

Butterfly  Blue  and  Grasshopper  Yellow 271 

Buzz-z-z-z-z-z.  buzz! 27G 

By  Xebo's  lonely  mountain 3S£ 

519 


520 


INDEX  of  first  lines. 


Page 

Camel,  thou  art  good  and  mild 179 

Can  y.ou  count  the  stars  that  brightly 357 

''Caw!  caw  !"  says  the  crow 314 

Cheeks  as  soft  as  July  peaches 19 

Cherries  are  ripe 293 

Children,  choose  it 83 

Children,  do  you  love  each  other? 94 

Come  and  see  my  baby  dear 43 

Come,  bairns,  come  all  to  the  frolic  play 418 

Come,  gather  round  me,  little  ones 458 

Come  here,  little  Robin,  and  don't  be  afraid...   239 

Come  into  the  meadows 323 

Come,  list  to  me  and  you  shall  hear 475 

'•  Come,  little  leaves,"  said  the  wind  one  day..  304 

Come  out  of  your  beds,  there  ! 174 

Come  stand  by  my  knee,  little  children 355 

Come,  take  up  your  hats,  and    away  let   us 

haste 272 

Come  unto  these  yellow  sands 430 

Come  ye  into  the  summer  woods 321 

Cousin  Jack,  the  sailor  lad 243 

Creep  away,  my  bairnie 27 

Daffy-down-dilly  came  up  in  the  cold 288 

Dear  children,  see,  I'm  old  and  poor 152 

Dear  doll,  how  I  love  you  ! 44 

Dear  grandma,  I  will  try  to  write 41 

Dear  Hetty  had  read  in  a  curious  book 448 

Dear  Jesus  !   ever  at  my  side 366 

Dear  little  bare  feet 25 

Dear    little    bird,    don't    make    this   piteous 

cry 235 

Dear  me!  it  never  rains  so  hard 311 

Dear  mother,  how  pretty 345 

"  Dear  mother."  said  a  little  fish 276 

"  Dear  mother,  why  do  all  the  girls 106 

Did  you  ever  see  our  baby 24 

"  Donkey,  I'll  ask  you  a  riddle  to-day 1S5 

Down  in  a  field,  one  day  in  June ]0S 

Down  in  a  green  and  shady  bed 289 

Do  you  ask  what  the  birds  say?     The  spar- 
row, the  dove 234 

"  Edward,  come  here;  how  pale  you  are  ! 121 

Ere  on  my  bed  my  limbs  I  lay 370 

Five  minutes  late,  and  the  school  is  begun 87 

For  Scotland's  and  for  freedom's  right 487 

Friendless  and  poor,  but  with  heart  content...  442 

From  Greenland's  icy  mountains 390 

From  morning  till  night  it  was  Lucy's   de- 
light   112 

From  out  his  hive  there  came  a  bee - 314 


Page 

Full  fathom  five  thy  father  lies 430 

Full  merrily  rings  the  millstone  round 429 

Gentle  Jesus,  meek  and  mild 367 

Gentle  river,  gentle  river 338 

Get  up,  little  sister:  the  morning  is  bright 318 

"  Give  me  turkey  for  my  dinner" 218 

God  can  see  us  everywhere 379 

God  might  have  bade  the  earth  bring  forth...  280 

God  on  high  to  man  did  speak 379 

God  prosper  long  our  noble  king 479 

Golden  autumn  comes  again 325 

Golden  Hair  climbed  upon  grandpapa's  knee.  72 

Golden  slumbers  kiss  your  eyes 31 

Good  boys  and  girls  should  never  say 86 

Good-bye,  good-bye  to  summer 239 

Good-bye,  little  children,  I'm  going  away 263 

"Good-night,  dear  mamma,"  a  little  girl  said  371 
Good-night,  my  dear  mother — dear   mother, 

good-night 372 

"Good-night!"  said  the  plough  to  the  weary 

old  horse 351 

"Good-night,  Sir  Book,"  said  a  little  lark 256 

Good  people  all,  of  every  sort 497 

Grandmamma  sits  in  her  quaint  arm-chair....  70 

Grandmothers  are  very  nice  folks 71 

Grandpapa's  spectacles  cannot  be  found 73 

Great  events  we  often  find 85 

Great,  wide,  beautiful,  wonderful  world 281 

Half  a  league,  half  a  league 500 

Hamelin  Town's  in  Brunswick 467 

Hang  up  the  baby's  stocking 393 

Happy  the  man  whose  wish  and  care  518 

Hark!  the  Christmas  bells  are  ringing 403 

Hark!  the  merry  pealing  bells 401 

Hark  to  the  thunder! 152 

Hark!  ye  neighbors,  and  hear  me  tell 376 

Have  you  heard  of  a  collier  of  honest  renown..  103 

Have  you  seen  Annie  and  Kitty 56 

Hear  the  sledges  with  the  bells 512 

Here  comes  old  Father  Christinas 401 

Here  I  come  creeping,  creeping  everywhere...  291 

Here  in  this  wiry  prison  where  I  sing 235 

Here  lies  whom  hound  did  ne'er  pursue 205 

Here's  a  lesson  all  should  heed 85 

High  on  a  mountain's  haughty  steep 102 

Ho  !  I'm  a  king,  a  king  !     A  crown  is  on  my  . 

head 48 

"  How  does  the  water 341 

How  doth  the  little  busy  bee 266 

How  man}7  miles  to  Baby-land? 27 

How  many  pounds  does  the  baby  weigh 22 


INDEX    OF    FIRST   LIMES. 


521 


Page 

"How  much  I  love  you,  mother  dear!" 74 

How  pleasant  the  life  of  a  bird  must  be 228 

How  sleep  the  brave  who  sink  to  rest 505 

How  sweet  is  a  morning  in  spring 298  | 

"How  we  wish  that  we  knew  a  hero!" 140  I 

Hurrah  !  we've  got  him — the  Christmas-tree..  393 

Hush,  my  dear!     Lie  still  and  slumber ! 364  I 

I  am  ahoney-bee 269  j 

I  am  monarch  of  all  I  survey 464 

I  am  only  a  little  sparrow 249  I 

I  am  sitting  by  the  fireside 226 

I  asked  a  lad  what  he  was  doing 143 

I  asked  a  sweet  robin  one  morning  in  May....  241 
I  climbed  the  dark  brow  of  the  mighty  Hell- 

vellyn 509  \ 

I  come  from  haunts  of  coot  and  hern.  336  I 

"  I  don't  like  Katy;  she  isn't  nice 141  i 

If  Wisdom's  ways  you  wisely  seek 83 

I  had  a  dove,  and  the  sweet  dove  died 245 

I  had  some  money  in  my  purse ,.,  145 

I  had  told  him,  Christmas  morning 408 

I  have  a  little  sister 37 

I  have  got  a  new-born  sister 22 

I  have  sailed  my  boat  and  spun  my  top 58 

"  I  hear  thee  speak  of  the  better  land 375 

I  knew  a  widow  very  poor 379 

I  know  a  funny  little  man 37 

I  know  the  song  that  the  bluebird  is  singing..  245 

Hike  little  Pussy 211 

I  love  to  tell  the  story 363 

"I  love  you,  mother,"  said  little  John 73 

I'm  a  little  husbandman 109 

I  mean  to  be  a  soldier 169 

I'm  fond  of  the  good  apple  tree 293 

I'm  just  a  wee  bit  lassie,  with  a  lassie's   win- 
some ways 38 

I'm  very   glad  the    spring  is  come — the  sun 

shines  out  so  bright 317 

In  a  crack  near  the  cupboard,  with  dainties 

provided 220 

In  a  large  house  with  two  kind  aunts S9 

In  a  little  brown  house 16 

In  slumbers  of  midnight  the  sailor  boy  lay...  154  ' 

In  the  snowing  and  the  blowing 315 

In  the  sun's  bright  gold 256 

Into  the  sunshine 333 

I  once  had  a  sweet  little  doll,  dears 42   ! 

I  prayed  to  God:  He  heard  my  prayer 373 

I  sat  one  evening  watching , 61 

I  saw  a  little  streamlet  flow 339 

I'se  a  poor  'it tie  sorrowful  baby 17 

I  sprang  to  the  stirrup,  and  Joris  and  he 495 


Page 

Is  there  for  honest  poverty 51  8 

I  think,  when  I  read  that  sweet  story  of  old..  363 
•'  it  snows!"  cries  the  school  boy  ;   "hurrah!" 

and  his  shout  330 

It  snows  !  it  snows!     From  out  the  sky 329 

It  was  a  blessed  summer  day 150 

It  was  a  summer  evening 500 

It  was  the  schooner  Hesperus 101 

It  was  the  time  when  lilies  blow 511 

I've  a  sweet  little  pet;    she  is  up   with   the 

lark 39 

I've  got  two  hundred  soldiers 47 

I  want  to  be  an  angel 374 

I  want  to  be  like  Jesus 373 

January  brings  the  snow 297 

Jesus  says  that  we  must  love  Him 366 

Jesus,  see  a  little  child 368 

Jesus,  tender  Shepherd,  hear  me 368 

John  Gilpin  was  a  citizen 491 

Jolly  old  Kriss,  what  a  fellow  3'ou  are  !  407 

Joy  to  Philip  !  he  this  day 80 

Kind  masters  and  misses,  whoever  you  be 220 

King  Francis  was  a  hearty  king,  and  loved  a 

royal  sport 504 

Kitten,  kitten,  two  months  old 224 

Lady-bird!  lady-bird!  fly  away  home! 274 

Lady  Moon,  Lady  Moon,  where  are  you  rov- 
ing ? 340 

Last  year  a  linnet's  brood  I  bought 232 

Lazy  sheep,  pray  tell  me  why 192 

Let  dogs  delight  to  bark  and  bite 79 

Like  a  gentle  joy  descending 310 

Lily  gave  a  party 286 

Lion,  thou  art  girt  with  might ! 177 

Lips,  lips,  open  ! 28 

Lithe  and  listen,  gentlemen 483 

Little  Ann  and  her  mother  were  walking  one 

day 143 

"  Little  bird  !   little  bird  !   come  to  me  !  230 

"  Little  brown  squirrel,  pray  what  do  you  eat  ?  208 

Little  bud  Dandelion 28S 

Little  child,  when  you're  at  play 367 

Little  dainty  sunbeams  ! 312 

Little  drops  of  water 86 

Little  Gretchen,  little  Gretchen 410 

Little  lamb,  who  made  thee? 192 

Little  Miss  Brier  came  out  of  the  ground 290 

Little  one,  come  to  my  knee! 204 

"Little  sparrow,  come  here  and  say 227 

Little  Tommy  found  a  shilling 134 


522 


IJYDFJC    OF   FIRST   LIMES, 


Page 
Little  white  Lily 284 

Little  Willie  stood  under  an  apple  tree  old....    120 

Look  at  me  with  thy  large  brown  eyes 32 

Lord,  I  would  own  Thy  tender  care 373 

Loving  Jesus,  meek  and  mild 367 

Mary  had  a  little  lamb 189 

Merrily  swinging  on  brier  and  weed 246 

Mine  be  a  cot  beside  the  hill 517 

Mischief-loving  Robbie 210 

"Molly,  and  Maggie,  and  Alice 49 

"  Mooly  cow,  mooly  cow,  home  from  the  wood.  186 

''Moo!  moo!  pretty  lady!" 185 

Mother,  mother,  the  winds  are  at  play 322 

"Mother,  what  are  those  little  things 350 

My   beautiful!    my  beautiful!    that   standest 

meekly  by 180 

My  country, 'tis  of  thee 508 

My  dear,  do  you  know 456 

My  dear  little  kittens!  my  five  little  darlings  !.  212 

My  dog  and  I  are  faithful  friends 200 

My  ear-rings  !  my  ear-rings  !  they've  dropped 

into  the  well 510 

My  fairest  child,  I  have  no  song  to  give  you..  174 

My  grandmother  lives  on  a  farm 170 

My  pretty  baby  brother 29 

Nae  shoon  to  hide  her  tiny  taes 30 

Napoleon's  banners  at  Boulogne 164 

Nay,  only  look  what  I  have  found! 249 

Nellie  and  Dottie 112 

New  dresses?     Ay,  this  is  the  season  ! 283 

No  dandy  dog  poor  Rover  was 196 

No  stir  in  the  air,  no  stir  in  the  sea 498 

Not  a  drum  was  heard,  not  a  funeral  note 505 

Not  long  ago  I  wandered  near 02 

"  Now,  children,"  said  Puss,  as  she  shook  her 

head 219 

Now  he  who  knows  Old  Christmas 400 

Now  I  lay  me  down  to  sleep 368 

"Now  1  lay  "—repeat  it,  darling 370 

"Now,  let's  have  a  game  of  play 60 

Now  ponder  well,  you  parents  dear 456 

Now  the  sun  is  sinking 345 

Or  all  the  flowers  the  summer  brings 289 

Oft  has  it  been  my  lot  to  mark 514 

Oft  T  had  heard  of  Lucy  Gray 148 

O  God!  who  wert  my  childhood's  love 358 

Oh,  Anna,  this  will  never  do 116 

Oh,  happy  the  milkmaid's  life 174 

Oh,  here  is  Miss  Pussy 212 

"Oh,  I  am  so  happy  !"  a  little  girl  said 372 


Page 
"  Oh,  I've  got  a  plum -cake,  and  a  feast  let  us 

make 132 

"  Oh,  I've  got  a  plum-cake,  and  a  fine  feast 

I'll  make 132 

Oh,  look  at  the  moon! 347 

Oh!  Maggie  loves  the  lily  fair  ! 282 

"Oh,  Mary,  go  and  call  the  cattle  home 497 

Oh,  master,  no  more  of  your  lessons! 129 

Oh,  mother,  dear  mother,  no  wonder  I  cry  !...     23 

Oh,  mother  dear,  pray  tell  me  where 274 

Oh,  mother,  won't  you  speak  to  Kate? 115 

Oh,  naughty  puss!  you  must  not  play 222 

Oh,  papa  !  dear  papa !  we've  had  such  a  fine 

game! 46 

Oh,  say,  can  you  see  by  the  dawn's  early  light.  508 

Oh,  say  what  is  that  thing  called  Light 151 

Oh,  Susey,  stop  a  moment,  dear 138 

Oh,  tell  me  the  form  of  the  soft  summer  air...   151 

Oh,  that  day  last  December! 421 

Oh,  the  book  is  a  beauty,  my  darling 78 

Oh,  there's  the  squirrel  perched  aloft 207 

Oh,  where  do  you  come  from 312 

Oh,  where  is  my  kitten,  my  little  gray  kitten?  211 

Oh,  who  would  rob  the  wee  bird's  nest 237 

Oh,  young  Loehinvar  is  come  out  of  the  West  502 
Old  John  had  an  apple  tree,  healthy  and  green  121 

Old  Mother  Duck  has  hatched  a  brood 261 

Old  story-books  !  old  story-books  !     We  owe 

ye  much,  old  friends 422 

Old  Winter  comes  forth  in  his  robe  of  white..  329 

Old  Winter  is  coming;  alack,  alack  ! 327 

O  little  flowers,  you  love  me  so 280 

Once,  as  many  German  princes 100 

Once  a  trap  was  baited 228 

Once,  in  the  hope  of  honest  gain 179 

One  rainy  morning 47 

One  stormy  night  upon  the  Alps 193 

One  ugly  trick  has  often  spoiled 110 

On  Linden,  when  the  sun  was  low 506 

Only  a  baby  small 15 

"  Open  the  window  and  let  me  in  " 309 

Our  bugles  sang  truce,  for  the  night-cloud  had 

lowered 165 

Our  doll-baby  show,  it  was  something  quite 

grand 45 

Over  in  the  meadow 262 

Over  the  fence  is  a  garden  fair 119 

Over  the  hill  the  farm-boy  goes 172 

Over  the  ice,  so  smooth  and  bright 332 

Piped  the  blackbird  on  the  beechwood  spray.  128 

Piping  down  the  valleys  wild 80 

Pity  the  sorrows  of  a  poor  old  man 135 


INDEX    OF   FIRST   LINES. 


523 


Page 

Planting  the  corn  and  potatoes 57 

Poor  little  Minna!  she  knew,  I  wot 434 

Pray,  where  are  the  little  blue-bells  gone 452 

Pray,  where  is  my  hat?     It  is  taken  away....  115 

Pretty  Kit,  little  Kit 213 

Pretty  Polly  Pansy 31 

Pretty  robin,  do  not  go 237 

Prithee,  little  buzzing  fly 266 

Pussy  Cat  lives  in  the  servants*  hall 215 

Quoth  the  boy:  "I'll  climb  that  tree 230 

Rain!  rain!  April  rain ! 306 

Ring-ting!     I  wish  I  were  a  primrose 77 

Robbie's  sold  the  baby! 25 

Robins  in  the  tree-tops 302 

Roll  on,  roll  on,  you  restless  waves 341 

''Say,  papa,  I  want  you  to  listen 346 

Scorn  not  the  slightest  word  or  deed 16S 

See!  the  chickens  round  the  gate 25S 

See  the  shining  dewdrops 357 

Shining  eyes,  very  blue 41 

Silkworm  on  the  mulberry  tree 275 

Sing,  I  pray,  a  little  song , 40 

Sir  John  and  Sir  Bevis  were  knights  of  old...  384 

Sleep,  baby,  sleep  ! 30 

Slowly  forth  from  the  village  church 95 

Soft  of  voice  and  light  of  hand 39 

Some  children  roam  the  fields  and  hills 133 

So   now,  pretty  Robin,   you've  come    to   my 

door 233 

Sjaring  clay  !  happy  day  ! 297 

Stand  up  and  listen  like  a  dear  old  Flo  ! 199 

Stay,  lady,  stay,  for  mercy's  sake 149 

"Stop,  stop,  pretty  water!'' 333 

Such  fun  as  we  had  one  rainy  day 40 

Suppose,  my  little  lady 101 

Suppose  the  little  cowslip SS 

Sweet  and  low,  sweet  and  low 33 

"Tell  me,  my  little  one,  tell  me  why 349 

Tell  me  the  old,  old  story 359 

Thank  you,  pretty  cow,  that  made 1S6 

That  way  look,  my  infant,  lo ! 216 

The  arching  trees  above  a  path 178 

The  Assyrian  came  down  like  the  wolf  on  the 

fold 501 

The  birds  are  flown  away 325 

The  bleak  winds  of  winter  are  past 315 

The  bonnie,  bonnie  bairn,  who    sits  poking 

in  the  ase 77 

The  boy  stood  on  the  burning  deck 163 


Page 

The  breaking  waves  dashed  high 506 

The  brown  owl  sits  in  the  ivy-bush 251 

The  chickadee,  the  chickadee! 248 

The  chill  November  day  was  done 63 

The    church-bells    rang    out    one    Christmas 

morn 417 

The  clock  is  on  the  stroke  of  six 66 

The  cloud  then  gently  disengaged 308 

The  cock  is  crowing 303 

The  cottage  was  a  thatched  one,  the  outside 

old  and  mean 141 

The  cottage-work  is  over 61 

The  day  is  gone,  the  night  is  come 368 

The  deep  affections  of  the  breast 250 

The  dew  was  falling  fast,  the  stars  began  to 

blink 190 

The  farmer  sat  in  his  easy-chair 75 

The  Frost  looked  forth  one  still  clear  night...  326 
The  ground  was  all  covered  with  snow  one 

day 247 

The  king  sits  in  Dunfermline  town 477 

The  lady-bird  sat  in  the  rose's  heart 270 

The  lazy  lad!  and  what's  his  name? 116 

The  Little  Red  Riding-Hood — such  was   the 

name +  ...   472 

"  The  Master  has  come  over  Jordan  " 365 

The  mice  had  met  in  council 223 

The  morning  bright 369 

The  mother  looked  pale,  and  her  face  was  sad.  113 

The  Ordeal's  fatal  trumpet  sounded 487 

The  pretty  red  squirrel  lives  up  in  a  tree 207 

The  rainbow,  how  glorious  it  is  in  the  sky  !...  344 
There  came  to  my  window,  one  morning  in 

spring 240 

There  dwelt  a  miller  hale  and  bold 103 

There  is  a  happy  land 375 

There  is  a  plant  you  often  see 291 

There  once  lived  in  Dogdom  a  dog  of  great 

worth 202 

There's  a  little  flow'ret 2S6 

There's  a  poor  beggar  going  by 139 

There  sat  a  bird  on  the  elder  bush 230 

There's  no  dew  left  on  the  daisies  and  clover.  7.6 
There  was  a  round  pond,  and  a  pretty  pond 

too 259 

There  went  a  stranger  child 409 

There  went  two  travellers  forth  one  day 123 

The  skylark's  nest  among  the  grass 231 

The  sower  sows  with  even  hand 324 

The  spearmen  heard  the  bugle  sound 195 

The  Spring  has  many  charms  for  me 299 

"  The  squirrel  is  happy,  the  squirrel  is  gay".  208 
The  summer  and  autumn  had  been  so  wet 464 


524 


INDEX    OF   FIRST   LINES. 


Page 

The  sun  is  hidden  from  our  sight 370 

The  sunshine  is  a  glorious  thing 314 

The  swallows  at  the  close  of  day 242 

The  tree  of  deepest  root  is  found 515 

The  Tree's  early  leaf-buds  were  bursting  their 

brown 292 

The  varying  year  with  blade  and  sheaf. 426 

The  white  turkey  was  dead  !  the  white  turkey 

was  dead! 260 

The  wind  one  morning  sprang  up  from  sleep.  305 

They  built  a  little  ship  158 

They  say  that  God  lives  very  high 356 

They  tell  that  on  St.  Bernard's  mount 193 

Thej'Ve  taken  away  the  ball 65 

Thou  ling'rest  not  in  the  monarch's  hall 313 

Thou  shalt  have  no  more  gods  but  me 374 

Three  fishers  went  sailing  away  to  the  west...   154 

Three  little  words  we  often  see 83 

Tiger!  tiger!  burning  bright 178 

Timely  blossom,  infant  fair 26 

'Tis  June — the  merry,  smiling  June 319 

'Tis  night  on  the  mountain 34 

'Tis  of  a  little  drummer 166 

'Tis  the  voice  of  the   sluggard:   I  heard   him 

cogaplain 118 

'Tis  well  to  walk  with  a  cheerful  heart 84 

To  a  king's  court  a  giant  came 385 

Toll  for  the  brave! 499 

To  the  yard  by  the  barn  came  the  farmer  one 

morn 187 

Touch  the  keys  lightly 101 

"  To-whit  !  to-whit!  to-whee  ! 233 

'Twas  Christmas-time:  a  dreary  night 412 

'Twas    the  eve  before    Christmas.       "  Good- 
night," had  been  said 404 

'Twas  the  night  before   Christinas,   when  all 

through  the  house 394 

'Twas  when  the  sea  with  awful  roar 164 

'Twas  whispered  all  about  the  garden 284 

Twenty  froggies  went  to  school 265 

Twinkle,  twinkle,  little  star 348 

Two  children  stood  at  their  father's  gate 99 

Two  ears  and  only  one  mouth  have  you 84 

Two  girls  I  know — Jeannette  and  Jo 98 

Two  little  girls  in  their  night-gowns 388 

Two  little  kittens  one  stormy  night 214 

Two  wistful  young  faces  are  watching  the  sky.  330 

Under  my  window,  under  my  window 62 

Underneath  an  old  oak  tree 253 

Tinder  the  apple  tree,  spreading  and  thick....  54 

Up  in  the  ancient  roof-tree 309 

Up  in  the  apple  tree  over  the  way  241 


Page 

Up  in  the  early  morning 31 

Up  the  airy  mountain 451 

Very  high  in  the  pine  tree 245 

Wake,  sister,  wake,  for  the  sun  is  up 319 

We  are  but  minutes — little  things „  87 

Wee  Willie  Winkie  rins  through  the  town 49 

We  had  a  pleasant  walk  to-day 316 

"Well,  I  think  I'll  be  a  soldier 105 

West  wind  and  sunshine 321 

We've  called  our  young  puss  Cleopatra 218 

We've  got  a  baby  !  I  should  like  you  to  come.  17 

We've  ploughed  our  land,  and  with  even  hand.  314 

We  were  crowded  in  the  cabin 163 

"  What  are  you  good  for,  my  brave  little  man  ?..  65 

"What  bell-house  yonder  towers  in  sight.......  182 

"What,  Charles!  returned?"  papa  exclaimed  124 

What  does  little  birdie  say 28 

Whatever  mine  ears  can  hear 352 

What  if  a  drop  of  rain  should  plead 308 

What  is  it  makes  me  happiest? 100 

"What  is  that,  mother?" 238 

"  What  is  this  pretty  little  thing 16 

What!  not  know  our  clean  Clara? 142 

What  shall  we  name  the  darling 20 

What  so  sweet  as  summer 320 

What  was  it  that  Charlie  saw  to-day 50 

What  way  does  the  wind  come?    what  way 

does  he  go? 300 

When  Aj^ril  still  was  young 308 

When  are  you  coming?  the  flowers  have  come  !  318 

Whene'er  I  take  my  walks  abroad '..  139 

When  Freedom  from  her  mountain-height....  507 

When  little  Samuel  woke 378 

When  the  winter  snowflakes  fall 356 

When  woods  were  still  and  smoky 310 

Where  did  you  come  from,  baby  dear? 21 

"Where  is  my  little  basket  gone  ?" 209 

Where  the  bee  sucks  there  suck  1 430 

Where  the  pools  are  bright  and  deep 318 

"Which  is  the  queen  of  the  roses? 281 

While  the  new  years  come  and  the  old  years  go.  86 

Who  fed  me  from  her  gentle  breast 69 

Who  taught  you  to  sing  ? 254 

Who  was  that,  dear  mamma,  who  ate 118 

Why,  here  comes  old   Cato  !  how  smiling  he 

looks 108 

"Will  she  come  to  me,  little  Effie? 51 

"Will  you  take  a  walk  with  me? 257 

"  Will  you  walk  into  my  parlor?" 267 

Within  a  town  of  Holland  once 377 

With  seven  years'  wages  on  his  back 125 


INDEX    OF   FIRST   LINES. 


525 


Page  l 

With  twelve  white  eggs  in  a  downy  nest 258 

With  what  a  lavish  hand 285  | 

With  wings  like  crystal  air 275 

Woodman,  spare  that  tree! 292 

Work  while  you  work 88  j 

You  are  old,  Father  William,  the  young  man 

cried 109 

You  ask  for  the  story,  my  darling 452 

You  have  birds  in  a  cage,  and  you've  beauti- 
ful flowers 20 


Page 

You  know  we  French  stormed  Ratisbon lfis 

You  little  twinkling  stars  that  shine 348 

You'll   not  learn  your  lesson   by  crying,  my 

man 98 

You  must  not  scratch,  dear  pussy-cat 225 

You  needn't  be  trying  to  comfort  me.     I  tell 

you  my  dolly  is  dead  ! 45 

You  never  need  fear,  little  children,  to  meet..  475 

Young  Jem  at  noon  returned  from  school 131 

You  say,  dear  mamma,  it  is  good  to  be  talking.   152 
You  see  the  gentle  water 15t5 


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